


Of Crimson Talons & Clipped Wings

by MU_I



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Brainwashing, Bruce The Bad Decision Making Robot, But seriously hail our Saviour Tim Drake, Court of Owls, Damian is a public danger, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Enemies to Lovers, Jason is so done, M/M, One sided Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Possessive Behavior, Sassy Tim, Tim the Hero Carry Drake, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 01:02:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 138,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12001668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MU_I/pseuds/MU_I
Summary: He hated the guy. He was insufferably touchy feely and the condescending shtick of seeing the best in everyone had gotten old fast. But that didn’t mean he’d murder him.Nightwing goes missing for five weeks which has the entire Bat family running up his ass because they think he was the one to off their missing member. Well newsflash, Jason didn’t.Five weeks of one missing brother, countless nights kept up to the Replacement’s accusations, the Demon Spawn’s new hobby of smashing up his safe houses and dealing with being the big bad crime lord running Gotham’s seedy underground has him pushing total mental breakdown. Sometimes he wishes he’d never crawled out of that coffin.It’s not that surprising when someone puts a bounty on his head. Just another day in the life of Red Hood. He’s dealt with assassins before. It’s simple really, shoot em in the face till they stay down.Things get a little difficult though, when the creep with an owl obsession  takes a shot to the face and gets back up. And when the latest killer on the loose starts looking like a certain missing birdie fallen from their dysfunctional nest.Updates Sundays 8.30 PST(or when the author isn't reviving from the dead)





	1. A Birdie Flew the Nest

Jason scrubbed the side of his face angrily as he hurled the helmet from his head to the sorry ass settee crumpled to his side. It landed with a dull thunk, weighed down by the pack of explosives inside that along with the majority of the stuff filling the nearby shelves, laughed in the face of health and safety regulations.

He spared the couch a pitiful glance, the thing looking as if it had been dragged through a hedge backwards and then subjected to a particularly nasty arson job, not to mention all the stains that had accumulated since coming into Jason’s possession; spilled beers, peppered boot scuffs and rusted crimson splodges that though always waved off as jam, looked suspiciously like blood. It wasn’t his fault he liked the taste of cheap booze and had a nasty attraction to the sharp and pointy. And it wasn’t like he’d asked to be shot in the chest three times when breaking up a mugging. Or stabbed through the leg that one time he’d run into a group of thugs harassing a kid in the alley outside over protection payments.

He growled, forking a hand through his bangs as he stalked over to the kitchen counter. He leaned up, pulling shelves apart, extracting a battered Pot Noodle from the cluttered tins thrown to the back. He peeled the cover off and raised a clipped brow at the beige gloop found beneath. Not exactly fine dining but in his stress it was likely an attempt at anything off the hob would lead to a call from emergency services as the apartment burned down.

His grip on the Pot tightened, knuckles dusted white sheen as plastic splintered. It had been five weeks since Goldie went missing. Five stressful weeks of sleepless nights, caffeine overdoses and dead ends.

In their line of work five days of complete silence was normally enough to herald a frenzied worldwide manhunt. Five weeks with nothing found by even the goddam _Superman_ was bordering funeral arrangements. Nightwing was gone without a trace. No sign of that carved grin that always made Jason grit his teeth and dig his nails into his pockets so as not to rip it off those pink blush lips whenever he saw it, no sparkle of those baby blues that laid the clearest, calmest oceans to shame. Not even a stray toenail clipping. Just one messed up apartment with signs of a struggle and one missing ex-Boy Wonder. Whoever had nabbed him knew their stuff.

Half the caped community were already holding their own memorial ceremonies, and the other half were steadily losing any hope that they’d find anything other than a corpse.

In the last few days even Replacement had gone strangely quiet – for once not ringing up Jason’s phone bill into the long hours to yell death threats at him. Which never put him in the best of moods. Which was why when little Timmy had first rung up at the totally humane time of 3.30 in the morning (and yeah okay, Jason could hardly talk, 3.30am was practically 9pm bat time) screaming Nightwing’s bloody murder, Jason had screamed right back, declaring the dick was better off dead, but not without throwing quite a few swears in for good measure, before slamming the phone dead and rolling back on his ass to stare angrily at the ceiling.

Sure, he’d never liked the guy – spending years of his life beneath the hooded glare and minute twist of lip silently stating _Dick could have done it better_ had hardly left room for the two of them to be best buddies. And then there was Jason’s breaking of The Rule. Yeah, the Bat’s One Rule – thou shalt not kill. Though he figured it should soon be changed to Thou Shalt Not Kill But Can Leave Those to Burn Alive Horribly in Lethal Explosions. Because god knows Bruce sure caused a lot of those.

He and Dick had never seen eye to eye on the entire no killing front. He was prepared to end the problem for good, Dick was A okay with just going along with daddy dearest like the good blind little soldier he was. All his life it had been the golden boy on a pedestal versus the street rat snatched out of the dirt. So no, they weren’t on the best of terms. In fact it was fair to say he hated the asshole. He was insufferably touchy feely and the condescending shtick of seeing the best in everyone had gotten old fast. Not to mention the self-decided unite the family bullshit crusade he had embarked on. Pulling an acrobat, former assassin, stuck up tech brat and crime boss together into one happy family? Yeah, good luck with that. Dick was a dick. But that didn’t mean he’d _murder_ him. 

Little Timmy was now leaving him well alone and Bruce was being, well _Bruce_ , declaring Nightwing ‘under cover’ even when it was painfully obvious he wasn't and refusing to give anyone else information of the poor kid's whereabouts. If it hadn’t been for the Did You Kill Our Older Brother talk from Tim it was likely Jason would never have known about the loss of the cape community’s finest Kevlar-coated ass until he was invited to the funeral. If he was even included on the invite list – he hardly doubted anyone would want renowned crime boss Red Hood giving a eulogy to stand up citizen Richard Grayson’s empty casket.

Bruce having a thorny stick up his ass as usual, however, meant that he’d stayed away as well, pointedly keeping Jason in the dark as he always would everyone until agent B found out from agent C and confronted him about it. For someone running round dressed as a flying rodent half the time, the guy had serious trust issues. Still, it meant less lectures over morality, and Jason would admit it was damn nice not having a bat constantly breathing down his neck.

Sadly, the same couldn’t be said for the Demon Spawn. Running regular patrols over Birdboy’s haunt of Bludhaven to keep the scum in line now that the city was a little lacking in its vigilante department was exhausting enough without the devil incarnate breaking into his safehouses to check for signs of the AWOL big bird.

He was normally pretty good with his mood (and okay that may be a little bit bias) but right now he was pushing total mental breakdown. This had been the third time this week he’d been forced to vacate a squat because the kid had enlisted another star in his new hobby of Extreme Home Unmakeovers. He was extremely tempted to send the brat the bill for all the destroyed furnishings, not to mention the sudden holes in his weapons closets.

His hands impatiently strummed the counter’s edge. If Alfred could see him now… He shook his head, slopping water into the plastic cup. The poor butler would likely have an aneurysm, but not before dragging him by the ear to the kitchen, sitting him at the table and whipping up a sixty course dinner of ‘real food’ to force down his throat.

He grinned to himself at the thought. A pissed off Alf was the scariest thing in Wayne Manor, narrowly beating out even the stapled Bat Glare. He speared noodles on the ends of a fork hurriedly snatched from a drawer, trying not to gag as he shovelled the string of slime twine into his mouth. He’d kill for some of Alfred’s cookies right now. But that would mean showing up at the manor, which would mean dealing with an even broodier than normal Bruce and a former boy assassin who was still paranoid he’d had something to do with the disappearance of the only guy they tolerated. And he’d seen the dirty looks Damian had sent him while sharpening that katana. So disgusting Pot Noodles would have to do.

His reverie was interrupted by a loud crash coming from his room – what sounded like a window breaking and he’d heard enough of fracturing glass to recognise it in his sleep. He snarled, dropping the cup to bulldoze his way down the hall, each angrily thumping step bouncing off the walls and promising the intruder slow, painful death. Or if it was Damian, a bullet through the kneecaps. Because he’d be damned if he was going to get saddled with the murder of two Boy Wonders.

“Demon Spawn I swear to god if that’s you breaking in again I’m going to put a bullet through your skull and send you back to mummy dearest in a body bag-“ Jason’s enraged roar trailed off as he rounded the door. Because the guy poorly outlined in the flashing lights of the seedy late night cafe opposite his very broken window wasn’t Damian. Unless Damian had grown a foot in height, popped yellow contacts and decided to raid some emo teen angst store since he’d last seen him.

“Red Hood.” The stranger declared through his owl mask and Jason grimaced. What the hell is it with Gotham and the unhealthy levels of costume freaks running round? “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” Owl Mask seemed extremely pleased and upbeat for an assassin, chirping the words as if he’d just popped round for a friendly neighbourly chat rather than to deliver a death sentence.

The man remained deathly still, giving him a few moments for the news to set in, so at the least his wannabe killer was the type of stand-up guy who kindly gave a heads up before they started swinging swords around to knock heads _off_. As the kid who was used to guns first, polite english later, he could appreciate that.

“Yeah I think you got the wrong place.” Jason drawled, casting a hurried glance behind him as he estimated how quickly it would take to reach cover and pull the gun strapped to his thigh. He jerked a thumb down the hall. “The costume party for creepy masked bird dudes is two doors down.” Maybe antagonising his would-be murderer wasn’t his brightest of ideas, but snark was a weapon Jason loved just as much as any of his other toys.

Jason surged away, throwing himself into a backwards roll; hands delving for his handgun just as the guy drew two seriously evil looking blades from the sheaths at his back and charged, cutting the air where his jugular had just been. He came up into a crouch, raising the gun to his chest and fired off two bullets, the lead burrowing into the guy’s head.

Bird boy fell inelegantly to the ground with a loud _whump_ , a tangle of limbs with a face full of floorboard. Jason was just congratulating himself on job well done when one hand twitched, and then another. Glassed amber eyes blinked back into focus. And then like a scene ripped straight out of Night of the Living Dead, the guy _got back up_. Rising off the floor like some freaking zombie just crawled from the grave.

It lifted a hand to its skull, digging around in the crater and popped the two bullets out. The gash knitted back together, the metal cheerily singing as it bounced, rolling away from the thickly armoured feet. “Red Hood, the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” The guy intoned, echoing like a broken record stuck on repeat and acting as if he hadn’t just taken two headshots straight on.

Jason blanched, his mind blank.

_Well shit._

He almost wished the Demon Spawn had broken in.


	2. Two Flew Over The Cuckoo's Head

Talon felt something funny bubble its stomach as it regarded the room it found itself in.

It knew the layout. Even though it couldn’t have been there before.

But it knew.

Like it had been there before.

It felt the strangest urge to run its fingers over the poorly matched wall coatings.

There was something curiously familiar…

**_NO_ **

Talon cut the dangerous thought.

Weapons weren’t curious. It wasn’t curious.

It wanted to rub a hand across its temples so as to banish the danger.

But it could only stand. Unmoving.

Couldn’t. Wouldn’t show weakness.

Its head hurt. A heavy layer of ash sat uneasily on its tongue.

The stranger that had traipsed down the hall seemed to catch themselves, their bullish bellow stuttering off, realising that the visitor wasn’t this ‘Demon Spawn’ they had spoken not so highly of.

Talon blinked at the face it found. Red Hood was without his namesake.

He was surprisingly…young.

Talon’s mind buzzed unhappily. Suddenly it just wanted to run away and never look back.

It had the sudden immature desire to foolishly climb the cot to its back and crawl the covers over its head.

It didn’t know why it had broken the window. It could have slipped in as silently as it always did.

It should have.

The Court would want to know why it hadn’t.

There would be punishment.

Except some part of Talon wanted noise, wanted the man to know their killer before the blade slit their throat from ear to ear and irreversibly spilled their life force to the floor.

It paused. But weapons didn’t pause.

Red Hood watched, wary. Talon stared back.

 _Do I know you_ … _?_

It opened its mouth. Tested the words.

_Do you... know me?_

Then the moment was gone. It closed its lips once more.

It wanted to scream. But weapons didn’t scream. And Talon was a weapon just as any other so it didn’t scream.

“Red Hood,” it stuttered, tripping over the name.

Which was wrong. Talon had read the lines of so many worse so many times before with perfect clarity...

“The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

It breathed a sigh in relief even though Talon wasn’t exactly sure whether it did still breathe.

The uneasy buzz disappeared from the back of its mind as it finally managed the words out and returned to the normal routine.

Familiar. It had done this before. There was nothing new.

Though the strange churn of its stomach remained.

Feelings were…new.

Unexpected.

Complicating.

But the Court ordered and Talon always answered.

The Red Hood growled out a jeer and Talon almost snorted at the arrogance.

But it didn’t.

Weapons didn’t snort. Weapons didn’t show emotion.

And Talon wasn't anything but a weapon.

Hood’s fingers inched towards the bulk of his own weapon cleverly strapped beneath textile.

Talon didn’t hesitate.

It charged.

**...**

 

The guy was good. He was better than good and it was taking the use of every second of training Jason had ever struggled through, both pushed to by Bruce and the League, not to get his head involuntarily amputated. If he ever made it out alive first thing tomorrow he was trekking to the nearest post box and sending a thank you card first class to Talia and her over excessive training schedules.

He ducked clumsily to the side just as the blade whistled down, burying into the wall behind his head. Jason threw himself back up, narrowly missing out on a new piercing for his ear.

The assassin growled, furiously tugging at the blade’s handle before abandoning the attempt and sword entirely, planting their legs and pushing into an offensive stance, straightening the one remaining blade in front of their chest.

The loss should have evened the odds or at least put Jason at the advantage, after all everyone knew gun beats sword. At least, it should. But then again every time he shot the guy they just shook it off like it was some cheap water pistol he’d squirted and not a fully loaded, fully working Desert Eagle. Jason hated to admit it but he was heavily out of his depth.

Five seconds in and he’d very quickly decided that the first KO had been the assassin faking it, acting like a cat getting some sick kick of playing with the rat trapped beneath its paws. Twenty seconds later and he’d been pushed totally onto the defensive, left no opportunity to retaliate, the whirlwind of spinning blades and frenzied movements only giving him enough chance to time basic evasive manoeuvres, and even those could only be pulled off sloppily.

With his build, Jason was the kind of guy who took brawn over agility; he was by no means the most elegant ballerina balanced on their fragile tippy toes, but now he’d been reduced to flinging himself round with all the grace of a drunken elephant hopping about on one foot.

Jason was losing. And losing badly. His sides were bruised, falling victim to a lightning fast blurred kick that he hadn’t even seen coming, let alone dodged, to what could possibly be a broken rib, his leather jacket hung poorly off his frame in ragged tatters, and his muscles were starting to seize up as the initial burst of adrenaline surged down. He looked like a guy who’d just gotten into it with a weedwacker. And lost.

Even more worrying though, Jason had the horrendous feeling the weedwacker was holding back.

One particularly poorly timed leap had the blade sinking cleanly in then out of his right shin. He stifled a scream, attempting another jump backwards as the guy swung the sword to a line aiming for his torso. He stumbled away, but before the blade connected the guy pulled the weapon up in a feint, aiming a kick to the same spot.

Jason toppled to the ground, fingers dead as they grasped at his belly.

The air rushed past his ears as his body was thrown to the mercy of gravity. Spots of bleached freckles danced angrily across his vision as the back of his head slammed the dusted floorboards to a sickened crack. He blinked, dazed, vision creeping into a void as the shape in front of him swam into a murky blur.

He gasped, hungrily chugging breath like it was a new discovery. Spots faded as the world returned to normal, but before he could make any move to get up the remaining sword embedded itself into the floor. He barely had time to panic, could only stare dumbly at what had very nearly been the beheading of Jason Peter Todd, then the assassin was on top of him, straddling his hips to place the two of them in one very compromising position that had Jason flushing burnt scarlet and praying Damian hadn’t managed to find this safe house yet and wasn’t watching from some rooftop nearby.

“Whoa, slow down there baby.” He purred, his lips carved wide to flash a mouthful of pearly whites. “At least buy me dinner first.”

The assassin snorted the beginnings of a rusty cackle of gargled nails before the sound snapped abruptly off, the guy flinching fearfully before totally stilling, eyes skittering warily to the sides. His head ducked to his chest as if expecting punishment. When none came it sprang back up, cocking unnaturally to the side. Glowing auburn rounds eyed him from behind the shattered half open panes with unnerving predatory interest that provoked a chill up his spine, Jason feeling like a hapless mouse run across a hungry owl.   

Jason glared defiantly up as a clawed glove coasted briefly through his curls before falling to tap curiously against his forehead.

“Strange little bird.” The assassin wheezed out, squirming uncomfortably in its seat as if someone were physically ripping the words off its tongue.

“Hello Pot, name’s kettle.”  Jason ground out, voice dripping heavy sarcasm. He yelped as the other hand shot out, the hooked claw running a gentle strip down, then sinking into his cheek, the corners of his vision painting from tanned cream to a heady crimson.

“Strange, strange little thing.” The killer echoed, voice an eerie sing-song. “Little bird that didn’t run. Brave lost Robin-“

Jason bristled, his temper flaring. Trying to kill him was one thing, but calling him a member of Bruce’s go lucky Orphan Patrol? Crossing a line.

“Hey, Red Hood’s no Robin!” He cut over, protesting indignantly. “I’m not a bat!”

The assassin continued, ignoring his interrupting outburst, still tapping away at Jason’s skull as if it were a particularly interesting nut it wanted to crack. “-That faced the hungry owl and thought it’d live.”

He had no idea what the guy was rambling on about but he’s already beginning to suspect the creep had his own bird bowl and personal padded cell made up all cosy and reserved in Arkham. Then again, Jason’s probably quite a few owls short of a parliament himself.

“Gee okay, we get it, you like birds!” He growled. “Sorry bud, but there’s already one avian associated baddie waddling the streets and I don’t think he’ll be up to time share.”

Jason was really missing Cobblepot right now. Sure, the guy was a sleaze and a trip to the Iceberg Lounge normally always ended in a shoot out or a quick dip in Ozzy's leopard seal infested pool, but he’s fairly sure putting a bullet in Pengy’s head would have the guy down and out for the count permanently. Unlike certain creepy undead assassins he can care to mention.

“You’re not screaming.” The guy grumbled, sounding so confused but more worryingly disappointed, as if Jason was a toy that wasn't working right. Jason eyed the blade embedded into the floorboards beside his right ear, wondering whether he should start screaming to keep the guy happy and prevent a new haircut. “Everyone else screamed and ran. But not you.”

Jason didn’t think it would help his wellbeing to point out that most people would scream and run at the appearance of a crazed assassin with a bird fetish. So instead he shrugged. “We both know you would have stuck a sword through my back before I could even reach the door.”

The guy seemed pleased with that, forgetting his disappointment and puffing his chest, smugly preening like the bird he was dressed as.

“You had fun, right?” Jason pressed, his heart jackhammering as he tried to cover his desperation. “Not a lot of people stay and talk, do they?”  

Crazy shook his head slowly, hesitating. His form twitched then turned stiff, as if the action had caused him pain.

“They always just run away don’t they?” Jason continued, trying for a sympathetic lilt. “This must be the first time you’ve got to talk to someone. Must get lonely.”

“Red Hood…the Court of- Owls…has sentenced you…” The assassin muttered, though it was sounding more as if he was trying to convince himself than Jason. Still, he was really not liking the returning glaze of bloodlust to those bronzed amber pupils so he quickly hurried on.

“You know,” Jason says slowly. “We wouldn’t be able to talk like this if I’m dead.”

He knows, oh he knows, how thin the ice he’s walking on. The man’s wavering, eyes flicking restlessly back and forth between the blade within reach and the fleshy point of Jason’s revealed jugular, as if wondering how well the two would go together. Jason’s life is hanging on the point of a knife edge and one wrong word could send the killer back into their earlier frenzy mode.

The assassin tilted its head to the other side, lines of mask pushing up slightly to suggest a grin forming the lips underneath. “Cute little bird singing its cute little song.”

“Heh heh, that’s me, cute little bird Red Hood.” Jason laughed weakly. “So, you won’t kill me?” he asked, hopeful.

The assassin rasped the broken chuckle again, the claw dipping out of Jason’s cheek. “Of course I will, little one. The Court demands it so your life is mine.” It ruffled his hair gently, oh so gently, in a sick imitation of love that should seem impossible coming from those crimson stained hands still dribbling his blood. “But another day, strange little Robin that fell from its nest.”

For once, Jason let the comment slide.  

The guy paused awkwardly, as if wrestling some inner turmoil with itself. Then he disappeared. And it wasn’t like Batman’s total dick move of turn your back and I’ll disappear mid conversation.  Jason was staring right at him as the bulk lifted itself off his hips and stepped backwards, melting into the shadows cast beneath the dying flicker of light strung overhead, their body melding with ebony pitch until it was only those glowing amber eyes left. The burnt glare seemed to watch him in amusement for a moment before he blinked, and when the world shuttered back into focus, even they’re vanished.

When he hauled himself to a stand and limped over to the window the street outside was empty, nothing to see but a couple of teens dressed in the latest skimpy fashions, the girls who couldn’t possibly have been pushing a day past sixteen no doubt set with forged IDs to sneak into the Gotham night scene. Other than that the area was abandoned, the stained cobbles below sorely lacking in their population of owl costumed assassins.

Jason pawed over one eye tiredly as he began to compile a mental list of things to take. There was nothing that suggested a home move quite like having a zombie expert killer knowing where you lived. Though he had the worst kind of feeling that even if he crawled under a rock on the other side of the planet, he’d still end up seeing bird boy again.

He abandoned his lookout, half dragging himself over to the cupboard of medical supplies. He winced; lips twisting to an unhappy grimace as his leg shrilly protested the motion. He hurriedly pulled rolls of bleached cotton from the shelves, snapping strips off from the spool with the ends of his teeth and set to work.

He hissed, inhaling sharply on each contact. One hand angrily brushed straggles of stray ghost grey wisps from his eyes. He sighed, shoulders slumping heavily. It was going to be a long night.


	3. Atop an Uneasy Perch

Jason hollowed his cheeks, puffing thin wisps of air from his cracking lips as he drew the baggy folds of his ill-fitted hoodie closer, the too-long sleeves splashing over the crests of his knuckles. He crammed the hood firmly over his head; the covering scraping his hair further into its swept mess and pulling his already darkened face into deeper inky shadow. He hunkered his head down into his shoulders, burrowing the butt of his chin gratefully into the zip line, mewling a relieved sigh to the greeted thinned layer of warmth.

His legs swung offbeat to the rhythm of flickered dying streetlamps and siren bellows of animals speared to pain off the distance, his heels falling in dead, dulled thuds off the ends of the fire escape he was pressed up against. His eyes narrowed, sharpened to a restless glare, as they flitted uneasily across the darkened skyline.

The unbroken stretch of Bludhaven lain before him was less menacing than that of Gotham, though while lacking in intimidation, the sight was just as depressing. Rolls of charcoal smog had gathered above the streets to paint the air a sickly greyish blue, with the occasional starkly burnt white of star studded as if an afterthought, each rarity breaking through the thickened layer of muggy canvas and fighting that good fight of light pollution. A certain silver orb was sorely absent from the night, normally brilliant shine a ghost of pale buzzed glow. The moon had retreated safely behind a blanket of charred fog, as if even it didn’t want to be there.

Jason could quite easily relate; the place was no stellar tourist destination, and the winter chill held a ferocious bite that stubbornly gripped teeth to his flesh like a rabid dog and had him mourning the days of his arctic issue Robin suit. It was almost enough to force a retreat back to the comfort of half broken heaters and duvet covers waiting below. And yet years of stake outs and brooding watches had him feeling the most at ease when perched high above the world. So he shouldered the chill, thought sorrowful thoughts of insulated kevlar and stayed.

He stared dully, drowning his miseries in the cup of cheap coffee clutched in dead fingers beneath the brink of his furiously reddening nose. He risked an anxious glance above, yet the skies were empty, with no sign of bat men or bird boys.

Bird boy. He didn’t know where they had dug that crazy up from. Though he’d be willing to bet Replacement’s trust fund that it was from a six foot ditch round the back of some loony bin. Then there was the question of who Jason had pissed off enough to hire him. Birds weren’t really Black Mask’s MO. And sure they weren’t exactly on the best terms right now – take three quarters of his territory and the guy sure held one serious grudge – but the crime boss had already tried the hire a wacked up killer way of removing their friendly rivalry. If memory served, that didn’t go so well.

Which meant he could possibly cross one name off the list of People Who Wanted Red Hood Dead. The problem was, that list was very, very, long. 

And yeah, he wasn’t some tech savvy genius or The World’s Greatest Detective with access to the type of supercomputer that would give NASA equipment envy. So he’d done what any self-respecting vigilante with a half decent laptop would do. He’d grabbed a cheap cup of coffee and stale doughnut from the corner café half a block off from his new haunt, climbed onto his roof and asked Google. 

“ _Beware The Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime._ ” Jason quoted the rhyme to a shiver. _“They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head_."

He drew his legs in to his chest and leaned his head back to scrunched eyes, nursing the coffee to over his heart, his free hand wearily rubbing his temples. So apparently some bedtime story for naughty kids wanted him dead. Well wasn’t that just fan fucking tastic? No prizes then for guessing bird creep’s business name.

“Send a Talon for your head.” Jason mused aloud, one hand uneasily playing over the bandaged strip plastered round his leg. Well his unexpected visitor had certainly come close to collecting that last night.

He snarled as his comm line crackled into life.

“For the last time Tim, I didn’t fucking kill Dick.” Jason growled.

“It’s uh, not about that.” The Boy Blunder coughed awkwardly. “I was just er, wanting to give you a heads up. Deathstroke’s been spotted near Bludhaven and Bruce is kind of on the warpath about it.”

Jason glared murder to his lap and furiously swirled his coffee, violently sloshing the liquid to climb the cup’s sides. “And I should care why?”

“Because you have a habit of pissing the wrong people off and you’re now a big enough target to end up with a bounty on your head and Dick would kill me if I let you die while he was away…” Tim broke off from his tirade, sighing in exasperation. Jason could almost hear the kid holding his head off the (Bat) desk despairingly. “Look,” he stammered. “Just- just don’t get shot in the head, okay?”

“Wow Replacement, you almost make it sound like you care.” Jason’s tone softened slightly. “Any news of him?”

Tim took a heavy breath. “None. Damian’s been tearing the streets up in search of any leads but hasn’t found anything. He’s close to losing it. Almost decapitated Freeze yesterday after the ass said about someone finally icing another bat brat. The guy ended up begging for us to call GPD. And Bruce is hardly any better; he’s barely holding it together.”

Jason made a note to try and avoid riling the hell spawn from then on. Dick had been the only one able to break up any arguments before they ended in any involuntary amputations. With ‘his Grayson’ gone, Jason did not like his chances one on one with the overprotective bordering possessive sidekick leaned to psychotic tendencies.

“So.” Tim whimpered to the ill crunch of Jason merrily cracking his knuckles. “Deathstroke huh?”

Tim uttered a horrified squeak. “Jason, don’t.”

“Didn’t he and Dickie have a thing for each other?” Jason continued, suddenly animated with new interest. 

Tim gave a panicked bleat. “Jason, _please._ ” He begged.

Jason's tone brightened, sickeningly chipper. “They were close, weren’t they?”

Close was an understatement. The two of them shared some kind of Batman/Joker like obsession for the other, with the elder having already attempted to bag a bird when the kid was younger and running his rebellious phase.

He still hadn’t entirely recovered from the trauma of the night when a twelve year old Jason had woken up in his room at the manor to find the mercenary hovered over his bed with a cocked rifle that wafted above his head, his eyes crossed in rigid following of the pointed barrel end as the masked mountain of killer for hire asked oh so sweetly for directions to his big brother’s bedroom.

A lazy grin stretched across Jason’s mouth. “Yunno I always thought they were fucking behind Brucie’s back.”

“JASON!” Tim’s voice jumped to a scandalised screech, though any further admonishing lecture was happily delayed as the boy surrendered basic English in favour of angrily spluttering for breath.

Jason ignored the choked hacks for air buzzing in his ear, the corners of his lip twitching the start of a smile at the kid’s distress. “Would make him an obvious choice for the disappearance though, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tim stuttered out, having recovered his ability of speech. “He’s one of the top suspects, next to Joker, Two Face and-“

“Me.” Jason interrupted flatly. Polystyrene fractured as his grip on the cup tightened. He rammed it violently to his lips and took an angry swig. The lines beneath his eyes screwed to a pained wince as the caffeine buzzed his tongue, searing hot liquid agonisingly drowning down his gullet.

“You.” Tim finished lamely.

The confirmation birthed an awkward silence that hung heavily in the air, neither of the two daring to break into speech, until Jason snarled a growl, slamming his now half destroyed cup down to abandonment beside his pushed up feet.

“It’s not- Joker.” Jason hated the pause, the tremor that splintered in his voice. His fingers clenched tightly, white solid crumbling to snowed flecks beneath the new onslaught. He keened a ragged whimper, his throat closing up. His body flinched beneath memories of swung crowbars and blossomed purpled bruises. He trembled, that haunting cackle to the backing of faint countdown ringing in his ears.

“No, it’s not.” Tim agreed softly.

Jason forced himself back to a still.

The Clown Prince of Assholery was still locked safely up in Arkham – safely locked up, at least until the next time someone decided to blow a fifty foot crater in the walls. Besides, five weeks of silence wasn’t Joker’s style. If he’d had Nightwing they’d already have received the spare parts left over in a body bag.

“Okay, hypothetically, and I do mean hypothetically, if someone wanted to search for a stray idiot and needed to find an up his own ass killer for hire, where would they go?” Jason inquired innocently.

“Jason, I’m serious. _No_.”

“Oh that’s cute.” Jason chuckled drily. “You really think Damian will stop at a no? Who do you want to have after one of the most dangerous men alive, the unstable ten year old with a katana raised from birth as an assassin and missing their moral guide or the experienced adult packing the Glock who won’t dismember the guy they’re trying to get information from?”

Tim sighed unhappily, probably wrestling with the idea of a deranged Damian chopping off limbs as he interrogated the Terminator. “The Docks. Waterloo Docks. He’s supposed to be meeting a client there tomorrow.” He finally muttered, clipped tones unnaturally resigned.

“Cheers Timmers. All this being purely hypothetical, of course.” He added.

“Purely hypothetical, of course.” Tim echoed, a thin line of playful amusement to his voice.

Jason found himself grinning wildly. Going behind Brucie and annoying Demonspawn in one go? Better, picking _Jason_ over the kid? Perhaps the Replacement wasn’t so bad.

Tim paused, groaning a complaint before suddenly bursting into an anxious mutter. “Listen, Jason, if Bruce ever hears about this-“

“I ain’t no rat for the bat kiddo.” Jason smoothly interrupted. “I never heard nothing. Oh and Timmy?” 

Tim gave a defeated grunt in recognition. “Yes, Jason?”

Jason fell into a brief lapse of quiet, letting the kid stew in the worry of what he’d say for a while. He stored the laptop in the bag slung over his shoulder, snatched the remnants of the empty cup to his chest and pocketed the long devoured doughnut’s greased wrapper. He shivered, huffing a healthy breath of that freshly frozen, polluted Bludhaven air, then pushed himself to his feet.

He swayed, for a moment just observing, searching eyes roaming the rooftops as if expecting a flash of movement or set of watchful amber tiger's glare to vividly burn out against the gathered shadows. He found nothing, yet he couldn’t shake the unease that whispered to ingrained paranoia that even if he couldn’t see it, the Talon was out there, somewhere. Watching him. 

_They'll send The Talon for your head..._

He wrestled briefly with the idea of telling bird boy A about bird boy B, but quickly decided against it. Bat family values probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing exactly how Jason had tried dealing with the latest guy after his life.

A few steps brought him to the edge of the drop and soon he was easing his body down the escape to swing back through the thrown open window. “Try and keep a leash on the Demon Spawn. Next of my places he breaks into he’s paying for. And I don’t mean cash.”

Tim swallowed thickly, the gulp audible down the line before Jason cut it dead. “Yessir.”


	4. Caged Birds Still Cry

Talon did not return to Gotham or the Court the night of meeting Red Hood. Instead it fled from the oddity of the not quite stranger, melting into a memory of shadow and throwing itself from Hood’s window to run, unseen, across the series of scattered rooftops sprawled before it. It crossed each with ease, jumping cliff edges to cross chasms and landing to fluid rolls pulled with inhuman grace, searching out the highest perch in the patchwork of spires climbing the skies.

Deciding on an old clock tower, it made its nest, scaling the heights to settle its legs on the outsides of a broken ledge drawn above the poor scrawl of numbers pinned to a broken face. It allowed its heels to thud softly and curled its fingers to the edge, eagerly leaning its form forward to an odd anticipation. Talon threw its head up, basked to half lidded eyes as lips formed to an appreciative mewl, revelling in the caress of fresh breeze that comfortingly swaddled its figure.

It battled the cold for the privilege of the sky’s embrace, refusing to abandon its perch so soon. Its joy soon soured though, happiness spoilt as pleasure slowly replaced to a growing discomfort and stubborn determination. Yet the chill won out in the end as it always did. Talon unhappily sighed its defeat, nursing its breaking fingers to its heaving chest as it beat a compromised retreat to the guts of the tower.

The floorboards creaked protest, bemoaning Talon’s weight as it dropped from its ledge, landing to perfect form in a cloud of thinly kicked dust, intricate baubles floated to a raise, delicately hanging free in front of Talon’s face. It flicked a finger to snatch one, a bubble of broken cackle erupting from its rusted throat as the effort only sent it to spiral further from reach.

But too soon it remembered the ice stalking its flesh and left the speck particles to their freedom and slunk away to find shelter. It pressed its form deep into the wall, curling its legs in to wrap with its arms, hiding from the winter bite behind the insides of the clock face it had previously so joyously sat above.

Talon did not sleep; rather kept to its spot and uneasily rested, eyes blinking solemnly behind their frozen screens. It sat stiffly; entirely still, too afraid to seek comfort or properly close the rounds for fear of bending to the seductive call of darkness pulling at its frostbitten lids. Talon did not require sleep to function effectively. And sleep was…unpleasant.

Only when the sun came up did it finally abandon the surface, forced down from the tower by the opening first strings of life symphony irritably buzzing its sensitive ears. It held back shrieks, its fingers sparing thin relief to its searing eyes, cradling its pounding head poorly in its hands as it ripped across the ever brightening concrete.

It did not stop to offer one final gaze as it tore the cover from its place, plunging its body gratefully to obscurity. Though its lips twisted to a mournful pout as they always did whenever it was chased back underground by the climbing stark rays that threatened to explode its world to an agonizing raged inferno.

It wandered the tunnels, traipsing to echoing tinny steps with its head drooped to its chest through mucky swill till it found a satisfactory corner to hole up in, the dead end picked off the side and far away from the grate bleeding buttercup through the foggy brown murk.

It passed the day fitfully in the stygian crypt, silently gazing ahead with its knees pulled up into a perch to lay its head and its back pressed rigidly to the uneasy rises and falls of uneven brickwork. It spent the hours woodenly repeating its failure, the image of the man it had failed to kill ingrained, tangled ebony locks broken only by a splintering of ghost silver frozen to perfect clarity, in its mind. Red Hood lived. For the first time, Talon had spoken but not carried out its sentence.

The morning and afternoon went, far reaching darkening shadows climbing through the veil of slight illumination to dote loving fingers to Talon’s head and pull playfully at its ankles. The day left with the promise of darkness drawing it back to the streets above, and Talon still could not pull the words for why it had left the odd bird alive.

The closest to fitting was _interesting_. The strange little Robin who had spat fire was an interesting thing, the first who hadn’t screamed or begged to be spared when Talon raised its blades, but dared to fight back. Poorly, but Talon had been trained in combat to slay the Bat. Little Robins pecking angrily at its feet were hardly of any consequence.

And yet the bird had caught its curiosity. A curiosity Talon didn’t even know it could have.

Talon ventured from its place when sure the night had set in entirely, slipping through the world above the streets like a ghost, just another of the many shadows that now ruled the surface. It took an odd path, at first thought entirely random. Until for some reason Talon found itself returned to the room where it had first confronted Hood.

It did not exactly know what had brought it there, other than that some part had wanted to.

And so here it was.

It sighed, wondering if the Court would be happy knowing it had come. Experience and the gashes littered to its skin gave its answer. It slumped dejectedly, running a finger over the latest of stitched scarlet lines before perking. At the least it could retrieve its weapons after it had so foolishly abandoned them behind in the haste to leave the man it knew but didn’t.

It hissed its frustrations when a quick search through the three room apartment revealed both blades missing. Its shoulders trembled as it gingerly fingered the fissure cloven through the wall, gloved digits tracing the rupture before skimming to pull across peeling beige wallpaper. That should have been expected. Taking them would limit Talon’s effectiveness. It was a smart move on Hood’s part.

Admirable but annoying.

Talon would have to get both back before returning to the Court. They would not be pleased to know Talon had lost not just its one, but two of its arsenal, and in the same night, to the man it had failed to kill.

It was with an alien vindictiveness, then, that Talon’s lips curled into a sickle smile when it discovered Hood’s own store. Not exactly hidden, more in plain sight. Displayed proudly in a collection of cabinets and trunks tucked through the hallway. It gleefully rifled through the unearthed trove, excitedly pulling sleek bodies from their holds and murmuring pleased coos as it tested each’s weight beneath its fingers.

Hood had kept his cupboards well stocked and had obviously left in a hurry, the fear of a second attack hanging his head like a poised guillotine edge to spur his departure. He had left a good two thirds of the offerings, abandoning the leftovers in favour of his own hide.

Talon reached a decision, happily pocketing its own present from the villain’s personal collection, then turned its attention to the rest of the apartment.

It pulled doors apart to briefly paw through kitchen cupboards but soon moved on, finding no interest in the poor collection of cardboard cubes and tinned cans lining the thin rungs. Food was of little difference to Talon. It gave the battered settee to its back a sparing glance before darting to the bookshelves lining the corner.

Its nose wrinkled as it drew a dog-eared copy of _War and Peace_ from a shelf, hooking it between its thumb and forefinger and raising it to its face to examine. Fingers drew along the title before withdrawing, hurling it to the ground in clumsy discard behind its shoulder. _Jane Eyre_ and _Wuthering Heights_ went the same way. It snorted. For some reason Hood had never struck it as the romantic type.

It left the collection, padding silenced steps softly back down the hall to re-enter the first room. Hood’s bedroom.

It halted in the doorway, eying the bed, again struck by the curious urge to climb in and draw the covers tightly round its shoulders and curl into the baggy cocoon. It stuttered, taking a broken step forward, then a second and third, until it hesitantly pushed one hand to the cotton, pausing before stiffly clambering the blankets and allowing its body to sink into the mattress. It closed its eyes, evening its breaths.

_“C_m_ on Jsaon.” H_ whi_ed , h_s lips thre_ded to an upsid_ d_wn grin, legs str_etched as if to touch t_e ceiling as h_ balanced a perf_ct hands_and on top of th_ bed. “It’ll be f_n!”_

_“For t_e last time Dheackid. No.” saonJ growled fr_m where he st_od in the op_n do_r fra_e, his arms cro_sed tightly ov_r to his ch_st. “I am _ot curl_ng up wi_h y_u on **my** bed to w_tch **your** dumb ch_ck fli_ks.”_

_H_s m_ o u t h sp   li   t to a   n i_pi   sh    g_in._

_“W h a t   a   b   o   u   t     D   i        s       n     e   y    .     .   .     ?”_

Talon howled as it bolted upright only to be held in place by the covers now tangled to its form. They had climbed its head, now pulled over it, the snaring sheets blinding its sight a bleached clinical white. They pressed in claustrophobically, suffocating, pouring closer to its face, wrapping its limbs as Talon _drowned_.

It screeched, swiping hands frantically across to cut itself free.

It tumbled clumsily from the bed to the ground in a move abnormally lacking in grace, its usual elegance hampered by the tattered remains of strips that stubbornly clung off one shoulder to wind its waist and anchor its knees together.

Talon staggered as it ran through the hall, flailing limbs pushing to stilted motion as legs peddled in awkwardly twitched jerks. Its breaths came in ragged gasps that plucked free from its chest as it scaled the rafters, fingers frenziedly scrabbling to wrench the skylight open. It pulled its body up through the gap, hurling itself gratefully into the night.

Tracks of tears littered the edges of its eyes as it threw itself from the roof, even though it could not say why it cried.

The Court could not know its failure. Could not know their tool still _felt._

It wrenched its hands to pull the folds of its mask closer over its ears as if to shut out the screams plaguing the drums.

It should not have come.


	5. Sing Birdie Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update Schedule now fixed; new chapters every Saturday 11.30 EST, 8.30 PST, 15.30 GMT

Jason curled his toes back to life, uneasily shuffling his weight on the ledge he was stood on. For the second night in a row he was out, stuck in the warm as a witch’s tit Bludhaven night. Only this time his perch wasn't a cosy fire escape but a bleak stretch of shipping container, the muggy air reeked of two week old tuna and he had more to worry about than an assassin dressed up as big bird. Like an assassin who had the nasty habit of casually toting a sub machine gun around like it was his old age pensioner’s bus pass.

He pursed his lips. It was official. Jason Todd knew too many assassins. Maybe it was time he took that nice little wad of Brucie’s cash out for a ride, cut his losses, splash a couple mill out on a half decent pad and live the rest of his now far longer life out as an angry recluse in some corner of the Mediterranean.

His grip on the binoculars tightened to a steel trap, fingers clenching to narrowing eyes as the first of two figures caught in the middle of the lens stepped closer to blot the second. He wasn’t interested in the guy behind, just another of the scum leeched from the shitty pond of nameless criminals the world had to offer. He was inexperienced too, from the nervousness that wrapped his movements; anyone would easily believe the man was more wood than flesh, some carved marionette pulled to twitched actions by an unseen master.

The guy jerked in his place, a head tipped back to an anxious exaggerated cackle that probably sounded like a nervous hyena having a fit, though Jason was too far away to hear the sound. A few years younger and he might have felt sorry for the fellow. He wasn’t as old as most of the high ballers in the game, still in his twenties from the looks, messy hair, rumpled stain-splattered shirt two sizes too small.

It was all too easy to guess the life he’d come from. The kind that stuck you scrounging for crumbs in the gutter. Jason knew it well. It had been his, would still be his, and it wasn’t hard to switch their roles, to see that that may have been him nervously shuffling his feet as if afraid his toes would fall off, had he not been one hell of an opportunist bastard and tried to steal those tyres off the Batmobile.   

Now not only piss poor frozen but also thoroughly depressed, Jason wrenched his gaze to the second figure. Slade Wilson was in full work clothes, black orange bodysuit that somehow always managed to camouflage surprisingly well despite its vivid colorings hugging his form, twin ends of the mask schooling his features to a near emotionless blank slate trailing the handle of the formidable broadsword strapped to his back among lashings of ammunition reels.

Deathstroke turned, and Jason froze, so sure that the one eye was glaring right through him. He held his breath, a deer in the headlights eying that very quickly approaching ’56 Chevy. But the bullet that he waited for didn’t come and the mercenary turned back round, the fretting youth producing a thin jet case that was passed between the two, opened, stared at then accepted. The youth rattled off an unheard sentence, raking a nervous hand through their mess of hair, then scraped together a frazzled bow and staggered off, no doubt making a hurried beeline for the nearest open late bar to drown the experience in a dozen or so vodka shots.  

The sound of a grapple behind him had the binoculars thrown down to his side, his head whirling, fingers instantly itching to the sleek body of gun tucked into the holster clinging his hips. He spun, expecting to see Mister Tall, Dark and Gloomy, a growl rumbling his throat and shoulders slumping dejectedly when he instead found the pintsized cloaked figure of Bat Junior.

“Oh for fuck’s sake Replacement!” Jason cried angrily, silencing another string of obscenities as his hand fell back to his side, empty.

Robin folded his arms, lines of mouth thinning in a sneer to his obnoxious drawl. “I’m insulted you think _Drake_ would be able to prevent me from leaving.”

Jason groaned. “Ugh okay Damian, I get it, you’re a stuck up insufferable prick a million miles better than any of us poor mortals.”

He growled, tired and cold and thoroughly ticked off. He’d come to the docks to sightsee and possibly fill some abducting asshole full of bullet holes. He had not signed on to babysitting duty with the bouncing blade-happy baby boy.

He huffed an exasperated sigh, wondering what the fuck he had done wrong in some previous life to earn this kind of shit. It had to be something big, like kick a baby or start genocide. Karma was treating him like some vengeful ex who had a carving knife in hand and an urge to play the latest hit game of _how much does this hurt_?

He clenched his teeth, painfully grinding words out through the gritted dentals. “Now what the hell are you doing here?”

The holes in the mask opposite thinned to dangerous slits as Damian glared. “I could ask you the same. No doubt you are here to discuss payment of Grayson’s disappearance and the acquisition of his body.”

“Wrong, actually.” Jason growled sourly. “I’m here for information on the bird boy brainless enough to get his ass ‘napped. Same as you. So go away and leave the big boys to talk.”

“-Tch- A likely story." Damian snorted his disbelief, fingers grazing the handle of his katana. "Why should I not believe you two are in cahoots?”

“Because I may hate my brother and try to push him off the occasional building, with a safety line,” Jason hurriedly added as Damian glared filthy murder. “But I'd never keep him locked up for six weeks.” _Not with those puns. Or forced Disney marathons. Or appetite._ Jason inwardly shuddered. Dick was the scourge of all you can eat buffets. From the way the boy ate you’d swear he was twice cousins removed to a vacuum cleaner. Whoever had grabbed him would need the entire ransom just to foot the first weeks’ food bill.

Damian’s expression turned annoyingly smug. “You called him brother.” He stated. For a moment Jason was tempted to revise his rule of not hitting kids, because the brat looked oh so punchable right now.

“Yes I did, I must be going soft.” He snapped. He raised the binoculars back to his face, exhaling heavily. “Look, just let me handle this, alright? I’m not calling Daddy Bats to tell him about another dead bird.”

Damian snarled, hackles raised, and for a moment Jason balked, unsure whether the kid was going to lose it completely and fly at his face. But luckily, Jason didn’t need to book rabies shots. Damian stiffened, petulantly muttering “Grayson’s not dead.”

“He’s been cold for nearly six weeks, Damian. Might want to start working through those denial issues one of these da- Fuck.” Jason swore softly as he glanced from his binoculars to his left and found empty space. Shit. He wouldn’t-

An enraged battle cry reminded him of who he was dealing with. This was Damian. An _unhinged_ Damian with no Dick to hold the dumbass’s dumb ass back. He lifted his head to the skies and closed his eyes in resignation. He would. He so would.

He growled profanities promising the kid a painful execution, pulled his helmet over his head, cocked the safety off the Glock now freed from its holster and pinned to his hip. He sent up one final prayer of the boy’s agonized end then dashed towards the sound of the commotion. His lips twisted to pained winces at each tinny shriek of metal on metal, every ringing clash narrated to Damian’s indignant screeches of interrogation.

He’d say things were going better than expected when he arrived. For one, Damian wasn’t bleeding out on the ground with enough knives shoved into his skin to identify as a dying porcupine. He was looking a little bit more battered since they’d spoken and his shoulder hung at an awkward enough angle for Jason to guess it had been dislocated, but nothing broken and no immediate need for an ambulance was a major win.

For another Deathstroke wasn’t exactly the perfect picture of immaculacy he always strove to project. The lump of broadsword strapped in between his shoulder blades had been drawn, part of his costume had been torn a thin line down his thigh and there was a cluster of slight indent gashes on his wrist that had Jason wondering whether the brat had actually tried to bite him like the feral dog he so often acted as.

“Alright, easy now.” Jason walked forward slowly, holding both his hands up to a truce. “I’m here to interrupt you two ladies.” He called, swaggering into the middle of the pair. “Let’s break this bitch fight up, please.”

The whitened slits of Damian’s eyes smouldered, the blade pushed to his chest now lined to a thinned streak of scarlet. “-Tch-“

Jason felt his patience snap. “Robin, behind me, _now_.”

Damian glowered but did as he was ordered, his soles angrily slamming the ground as he shouldered past. Jason ignored the sulking infant, raising his hand in a friendly wave. “Heya Slade, how’ve you been? Never mind, don’t answer; talking to you is never a pleasure.”

The killer gave no rise, though the one visible eye narrowed, the thinned lines of hidden mouth pulsing slightly at the corners in irritation. Though the lines soon pulled back into a set straight, their owner adopting a cooled tone. “I was just minding my business when your associate here so kindly came at me with a butter knife.”

“Don’t play innocent, Wilson, your business is illegal.” Jason pointed at the same time as Damian gave an enraged bellow, angrily spitting “I am no associate of _his_.”

Jason turned his head to the brat. “You know you’re making me feel real appreciated here kid.”

“I’m no kid.” Damian bristled, his nose screwing up in disgust.

“Well okay then _Mister Grown Up_.” Jason called mockingly. His voice lowered, tone returning to normal. “Listen, you can swim, right?” He asked, all but missing a halo, uncharacteristically innocent. 

Damian pushed his chest, haughtily preening. “Mother instructed I master all of the basic exercises. I am exceptional in every stroke.”

“You know all I wanted was a yes.” Jason muttered bitterly beneath his breath. His tone climbed to an upbeat chirp as he helpfully added. “By the way, might wanna shut that mouth of yours.”

“Wha-“

Damian didn’t get chance to voice his confusion. Instead his question was cut short to the body slam shoving him to the throes of gravity. Jason grinned, barely holding off on a jubilant fist punch. He tried to silence his triumphant cackle, pretending that he hadn’t enjoyed shoving the insufferable ass off the jetty and into the freezing waters lapping the deck’s edge below quite as much as he had. Against his best efforts, a thinned snicker escaped his lips.

He ignored Damian’s rantings of asinine imbeciles, turning from the ten year old pulling death threats in one hell of a wobbly to the trained killer for hire. “So this is how it’s going to go. You’re going to stand there real nice and still while you tell me where you put Blue Birdie, then I’ll take myself and that idiot over there out of your way to leave you to that oh so important business of yours. Or, you can get your ass handed to you and then talk.”

Slade regarded him coldly. “Arrogance does not win wars.”

“No, but shooty things that go bang do, and lucky me,” Jason feigned a shocked gasp as he cheerfully waved his Glock. “I packed before I came.”

“Like a good little boy scout.” Slade sneered. “I would applaud but I fear that would simply encourage your idiocy.”

“Wow,” Jason puffed his cheeks and whistled sharply in exclamation through his teeth. “You two giant douches both sure love calling other people dumb. You sure you aren’t related?” He grinned at the enraged howl among the angry splutters coming from off the water.

“Maybe cousins? No, wait, don’t tell me!” He rapped a hand against his chin, pausing as if in thought before the part sprung back, happily jumping to the air in excited conclusion. “Second cousins? Twice removed.” He shook his head despairingly. “Family feuds, so sad.”

Something about the way Slade growled told Jason this would not be ending in a friendly chat over tea and biscuits. “Come meet your maker, boy.” The mercenary snapped. “Maybe this time we’ll all get lucky and it’ll be permanent.”

“Yeah no thanks,” Jason brightly chirped. “Already almost died once this week.” He shrugged. “Didn’t like it so much. Although you should try a Lazarus dip, might actually make your ugly mug bearable to look at. That’s why you’re always hiding it right?”

Slade snarled, calmed veneer cracking.

“Temper temper,” Jason chided. “Not that I can blame you, I’d be constantly pissed too if my parents named me after some stupid rock band.” He cackled, very quickly adding _goad Deathstroke_ to his lengthy list of fuckups for the week as his right arm jerked into his front, just barely missing being lopped  _off_.

“Okaaaay easy there, Jingle Bells-“He threw the Glock up to block the blade aiming at his neck, answering with a quick slash to the torso with the knife hurriedly plucked from the insides of his right boot. “Sensing a little animosity here. Has the big baddie got some mummy daddy issues we didn’t know about?”

“I don't normally enjoy mutilation but I will be positively ecstatic when cutting that tongue of yours out.” Slade hissed, leading another swing that almost had Jason out of the fight permanently.

“What, no guns?” He challenged, pulling a flip to dance out of the way of the arc of broadsword. “That worried I’d whoop your ass on the target range?”

His mouth carved to a mad grin, his body spinning off a turn and firing a bullet that Slade easily deflected off the blade’s edge. The bullet gave a low gurgle, the metal of the nearest wall of shipping container crumpling to its new crater.

Jason smirked as he fired off another immediately after, the hit landing squarely to Slade’s side, splitting a gash in the costume to the man’s huffed wheeze. “Or did little blue beg real nice for you not to slaughter the in-laws? How good of a lay does he have to be to get that privilege?” He popped another, the bullet spearing Slade’s wrist to a gutted roar. “Does he spread his legs and let you take him by now, or do you keep him chained up and hold him down to fuck him raw?”

“So vulgar.” Slade admonished, softly tutting. He dashed a charge with inhuman speed, sprinting forward to the whistle of blade. Jason dodged the path only to be caught by a gloved hand that clasped his neck and yanked him back, dragging him into a chokehold.

He gagged, scrambling against the limb wrapping his throat, tongue rasping as his mouth flopped open and shut like a paralyzed goldfish, uselessly searching for air. He frantically stabbed the knife into the arm holding him. Slade howled, dropping him to the ground with a pained grunt that had Jason seriously regretting picking two fights with two metahumans in the same week. God, he’d be feeling that one in the morning.

“I mourn your butchering of the English language.” The elder hissed, slamming the sword down to a very nearly deadly effect.

“Well fuck you too, dick.” Jason snapped flatly, his knuckles dusted a sick bleach as he helplessly clutched the knife handle, the thin blade locked into Slade’s all standing between him and one very large hospital bill.  

“Oh I would,” The elder dripped honey as his face leaned closer, Jason’s knife pressed into an increasing retreat. He yanked the knife away, sweeping his leg to knock Slade off balance, taking the opportunity to aim another kick at the guy’s face before pushing himself back to his feet and darting away.

The man recovered almost instantly, an armored hand swiping furiously across the shielded mouth. “But redheads were never my type, I much prefer ravens.” The condescending purr turned obnoxiously smug. “I hear they’re exceptionally flexible.”

Beneath his helmet, Jason gagged. Ladies and Gentlemen, Deathstroke the Terminator, just another pervy grandpa with a hard on for yoga and spangled latex leotards. He grimaced. Just another pervy grandpa with a 3.1 Heckler and Koch.

Jason yelped as he threw himself behind one of the many metal boxes lining the jetty, diving out of the sudden storm of hot clips dogging his heels. “And there’s the big boy toy!” He crowed, pressing his form further into the cooled metal’s embrace. He panted, gratefully chugging fishy breath. “And here was me thinking you didn’t care!”

He ran out from the cover, a well-aimed batarang knocking the sub from Slade’s grip. Annoyingly, he didn’t seem to give a crap, barely pausing, not even to glance at the discarded weapon, as he drew a Berretta and happily started popping off shots.

“You know I think someone’s compensating!” Jason jeered. Call him crazy but he charged straight towards the merc, drew back a well formed fist and performed a perfect upper cut that would have instantly floored any boxer. Except Deathstroke was not any boxer and the ass just snapped his head back into place, completely unaffected, other than looking a bit more pissed off than before.

“Your best efforts are trifling.” Slade stated contemptibly, a kick landing to Jason's injured shin throwing his mouth open in a  bestial howl of agony. “You are nothing more than a boy playing at hero.”

“Well sorry sugar," Jason panted, swiping the knife only for his wrist to be stopped dead by Slade's hand. Pain flared his vision.  "You haven’t caught me on my best day; you can thank a guy for that. Actually you might know him, about yay high, yellow eyes, totally fucked in the head?" Jason excitedly chattered. "Ever seen him at the yearly hitmen for hire conference?” 

Slade's eye narrowed. “I do not know of such a man. But I do know you will lose.” He promised darkly.

“Yes, like this I probably would,” Jason admitted. “If I played fair. Thing is, I don’t.” He hummed happily, pointing to the end of the feathered dart now embedded through the orange half of collar. “That’s enough tranq to bring down a rampaging bull elephant, and about enough muscle relaxants to have you doing that jellyfish impression for the next two hours.” He explained proudly, lips splitting open to a wide grin as the man staggered a foot to an uneasy step then keeled over, landing to a maskful of wood plank with an oh so satisfying _whump_.

He slipped his gun back into its holdings but kept a firm hold of the knife as he kicked Slade’s dropped Beretta away, the weapon skittering off into the water to join the variety of shopping trolleys and plastic bags sunken to the dirt floor in their not so natural habitat of Bludhaven's polluted bay.

“I’d get comfy. I’ve got one hundred and twenty minutes to kill and there’s no way you’re even crawling an inch off for oh, at least the first ninety five.” He leaned against the metal wall to his back, arms stretching out a yawn before falling into a tight cage to his chest. “So spill.”

From the way the eye narrowed in loathing Jason had the feeling he should be glad he couldn’t see the rest of the face beneath the mask.  If looks could kill Red Hood would be a smouldering puddle of gloop. “I don’t have him.”

“Y’know, I almost believed you for five seconds.” The knife spun a graceful cartwheel as he threw it up, only to be caught and plucked from its brief freedom by his other hand. “I’m going to ask one more time, then you’re a chewtoy for the brat. Where’s Nightwing?”

“Whether you choose to listen or not, your precious little bird is not currently in my possession. And believe me I wish he was.” Jason didn’t need to see the mouth to know the hungry leer staining it. “However," the villain continued in a dulcet murmur. "Certain sources have heard whispers under the ground. They are rumours though, inane chatter, nothing more.”

“Well I suggest you better start chattering then, I’m not sure how long I can convince junior over here not to slaughter your sorry ass.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, one thumb jerking in the direction of a very pissed off Wayne Junior dragging his sodden ass onto dry land. “Between you and me, someone has some _anger management issues._ ”

His point was only underlined when a fuming Damian stalked forward. “You better run Hood, because when I catch you I’m going to **disembowel** you.” The seething Robin hissed, expression genocidal.

“How quaint.” Slade chuckled dryly. “So tell me, why has Richard Grayson trundled off to the circus again? What is it this time, trust fund not big enough? Or was it another falling out with dear old Daddy? Oh but that couldn’t be, now that he’s all grown up out of those shorts, he’s normally such a good pretty boy. Do say hello to Bruce for me, won’t you, _Jason_?”

Well shit.

“Enough games, Slade,” Jason spat, hiding his worry behind bravado. He’d always known Slade had the Bat Family’s ‘secret identities’ sorted out. He was honestly surprised more rogues hadn’t ever figured out Bruce Man was Bat Wayne. Who else other than the playboy billionaire with murdered parents, a number of poorly explained injuries through unlucky ‘accidents’ and a habit to go missing for seemingly random stretches of time could afford the sort of toys the caped crusader ran with?

But Slade knew who Red Hood was?  Did that mean he had to come back to life? Because thanks but no. He liked being dead. It meant he didn’t get dragged along to Bruce’s fancy schmancy galas to force smiles and kiss up to Gotham’s most influential assholes every second day.

“You’re going to tell us what you know or I’ll hand you over to little ray of sunshine over there and happily watch him gut you like an especially up its ass fish."

“Now that implies you two have the upper hand.” Slade purred, pulling himself off the ground into a low crouch and aiming a second Berretta drawn from the belt lashed to his waist, the muzzle perfectly lined to Damian’s head. The gun jerked back, shot snapping out jarringly loud.

Jason furiously cursed out every drug-healing superpower, throwing himself between the kid and the bullet. He shuddered, yelping as it dug deep into his arm.  Oh he was _definitely_ feeling that tomorrow. He ignored the stinging pain blatantly demanding his attention to face the villain who by now was stood fully upright at the end of the dock.

“You know, at first I was sure they were false fairy tales and nothing more, although your presence here lends a certain newfound honesty to them. Perhaps they will be worth investigating further." Slade mused, voice low velvet. "I would say it’s been lovely, but it really hasn’t.” He spat out, raising a hand in arrogant dismissal. “Until next time.”

And then he was gone, leaving Jason bleeding out and alone with one murderous Robin whose hands were worryingly still full of katana.

Damian angrily flared up, “You let him get away!” He ranted accusingly.

“Oh I’m so sorry, I had no idea you _wanted_ a bullet through your brain.” Jason bit out sarcastically, holding his hands up in exaggerated show of defence.  

“I have been shot at before.” Damian snapped curtly. “I would have dodged, he would have missed and you could have utilised the time space to properly incapacitate him. A cut off leg would have sufficed.”

Jason stared incredulously at the ten year old who had just smugly suggested dismemberment before recovering. Issues. The boy had serious issues. The kind that he wouldn’t be caught touching with a ten foot dismembered limb.

“That was Deathstroke.” He snarled. “Deathstroke doesn’t _miss_.”

Damian huffed and Jason almost wished he hadn’t blocked the shot. But then Bruce would never be off his case. Hell hath no fury like a batman when you let a merc put a bullet through his kid.

“So what now?”

"Now?" He gaped at the boy. “Now you go back home before Daddy finds the fluffed pillows stacked under your duvet. It is way past your bed time kid.”

The katana blade quivered and for a moment Jason worried he'd pushed too far, but the blade fell dead to the boy's sides, his form drooping into a sad slump as angry snarls descended to a quiet mutter. “And you?”

Jason paused.

If Dick was out there, alive somewhere, then Jason had just encouraged Deathstroke to go find a vulnerable, easily kidnapped (again) Grayson. He’d fucked up. Big time. He had to start searching for the wayward lost hero, even if only to clear his conscious.

But something about Slade’s escape still bugged him. The killer had run instead of finishing the job. A shot up and bleeding out Red Hood would be easy pickings even with a half broken Robin fighting on his side. Yet Slade had spared them. Both of them. Even his replies to the interrogation had seemed strangely off.

His nails impaled themselves into his palms as he balled his fists, mouth suddenly achingly empty of a cigarette. He had a feeling the villain had just challenged him to a treasure hunt with Nightwing as the prize. And he didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Slade found him first.

“Packing my bags.” He smiled grimly. “I’m off to the circus.”


	6. Disappeared Dickiebirds

Jason had never been to Haly’s Circus. Though he’d heard enough of it from Dick to fool anyone into thinking he had. It was all too easy to match the faces and trailer names he passed as he picked his way through the colourful assortments of painted violent magenta tents and vividly splashed copper caravans to those he had heard numerous stories so proudly accounted of by a young Dick Grayson.

The lion tamer – Wilhelm – and the strong man – Samson, or as Dick had always joked, ‘Mister Muscles’ =  each sat off from the other on box crates, separated by a pile of playing cards spread out on a low table. Off his left, an elephant shrieked joy as children ran about its feet squirting trailing water hoses. The grey giant was suspiciously alike to the miniaturised stuffed toy Dick so rigidly kept locked away in his room at the manor.

It was hard not to shudder, let alone not drop to the floor and launch into a full on panic attack, when he passed the clown – Harry, from all the tales he’d heard of smuggled candies and secret late night juggling lessons. Even though the guy gave him a friendly wave, some change from the suspicious glares uncomfortably needling his back. Chalk white face paint and crimson stretched smiles would forever haunt his nightmares.

He grimaced and pulled his hood further down his face. The last thing he needed was someone recognising the long dead ward of Bruce Wayne. What with dealing with AWOL relations, a killer for hire with a Nightwing Complex and an assassin after his head who wasn’t kind enough to stay dead five minutes, he had enough on his plate already without instigating the goddamn zombie apocalypse.

Haly wasn’t in his tent when he entered, Jason guessed the ring master must still be busy closing the night’s show. Never one to be deterred by such thing as personal privacy, he slipped through the flaps and began to root through the tent’s belongings regardless, hurriedly ransacking shelf tables and rummaging through documents shoved tightly away to wood trunks tucked in corners.

He growled irritation, growing in his frustrations when the search came up with nothing of note but a closet of hung up old show costumes and props, and a battered pile of three week passed bills. His eyes flicked warily to the entrance, just about to call it quits and give up when his fingers collided with something strangely hard pressed towards the back of the latest grep lump of filing cabinet he’d been searching, a suspiciously far cry from the previous chain of useless paper wads he’d just filtered through.

He pulled the object out, turning it over in his hands curiously. A small leather-bound black notebook.  Nothing much else to say about it. No reason for why it had been pushed to the back of documents, as if in a child’s attempt to stuff some deep dark secret away from sight.

Curiosity well and truly piqued, he opened it, flicking slowly through the contents. Each page only had a single name to it; the lettering elegant swirls of weathered ink that’s age could easily have passed for ancient.  _William Cobb. Calvin Ross. Alton Carver._  He stopped dead, suddenly frozen in place.  _Richard Grayson_.

He recovered his ability to breathe and collected his jaw off of the tent floor, frantically turning the pages, but all of them after Dick’s name were blank. Except from the two he found at the book’s end which stained something worriedly alike to blood.

His heart jack-hammered, clawing its way up his closing throat in a sudden bid for freedom. The pulse spiked, painfully loud as it pounded broken spears through his cotton-stuffed ears.

Noise nearby had him hurriedly stuffing the book into his jacket breast. The cover had just finished disappearing into the padded leather when the man himself walked in. With the rounded, rosy face and silvered wisps peeking out from beneath a scarlet ring master’s hat, Haly reminded him of one of those store Santa’s that got paid five dollars an hour to lie through their teeth and sit little kids on their laps.

 “Why hello there.” The ring master’s face split in a friendly beam; hands rising to clutch easily at the gold embroider jacket’s sides. “And what can I do for you m’boy?”

Jason mustered his most innocent, least kleptomaniac winning grin. “I’m a friend of Dick Grayson’s. He’s been missing a while, dropped off the face of the earth. Bruce sent me,” He shifted his weight, feigning nervousness. “Thought there might be a clue somewhere around.”

The jolly smile froze dead at the name, its corpse setting to a stiff line on Haly’s lips. “Dick Grayson.” He echoed, speaking as if he were at the boy’s funeral. The ghost of something, fear or regret, flickered across the features. He flinched as if struck, then the smile recovered, the man straightening up and shaking off the slump. His voice softened out to a wistful fondness.

“Good kid. He visited about a month ago. Hung out with the crew, helped with the show but he didn’t stay. Headed out the gates and left for his place the same day. You’re welcome to look around, if you think it will help any. Try Raya and Raymond, they were the closest to him.”

Haly wheezed a chuckle, the sound as convincing as the stiff grin plastered to his mouth that didn’t quite reach those hooded eyes. “Thick as three peas in a pod they were.”

“Well okay, I’ll do that. And if you hear anything, just-” He paused, unsure of how to continue. Just what, casually phone Red Hood up to talk missing not-brothers? “Just uh, let me know.” He finally finished lamely, scrubbing the back of his neck.

Jason thanked the guy and quickly made his exit, hurrying his steps, Haly’s gaze burning into the back of his neck long after the man was gone from sight. He shivered; resisting the urge to run back to the tent, pull the Desert Eagle strapped to his thigh and start shouting terms. He never quite had trusted store Santa’s.

It didn’t take long for him to find Raya and Raymond’s trailer, mostly because someone had taped a sizable poster of the two performers to the front door. He knocked once on the frame, pushing it experimentally when he received no reply. He licked his lips.  _Bingo._ It creaked, teetering slowly open and he ducked his head in, quickly scanning the cluttered space.  He found discarded literature thrown on an unmade bunk, piles of messed clothes littering the trailer floor, but sadly no Dick Grayson’s tied up in the corner.

“Do you always break into people’s homes without asking?”

Jason whirled round as if suddenly startled, feigning surprise because no, he totally hadn’t heard the guy now impatiently impaling the heel of his foot into the grass, an aloof sneer stained to his mouth and hands plastered to his hips, stomping up loud enough to raise the dead from their graves coming from half a mile off.

It was easy to shake off the imitation tactics; the glare of mocha eyes beneath brows twitching in time to lips ticked in irritation held all the terror to him of a sneezing kitten. In this life and the previous, Jason had faced much, much worse. Glaring acrobats in spangled leotards had nothing on homicidal clowns stuffed into plum dinner jackets. “I knocked, it was open.” He offered an easy grin. “Tends to be my kind of invitation.”

“Well it’s not.” Raymond snapped bluntly. “Is there a reason you’re snooping through my trailer or are you just being that much of a creep?”

“Hey there, man,” Jason threw his hands up in defence. “That ain’t snooping, ain’t even rummaging. And I would have put it all back, Scout’s honour.” He raised fingers in sloppy imitation of the salute before dropping them back to his sides. 

“But no, that’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for information. Dick Grayson’s gone missing.” He explained, eyeing the guy. Some people just suited a Desert Eagle pulled to their temples. Jason could already tell Raymond was one of them. “A lead pointed me to this place. ” He didn’t mention that he’d never been a scout, or that his lead was a homicidal maniac who shot people for a living and was more than likely leading him on a wild bluebird chase.

“Dick?” A fierce redhead that he guessed from process of elimination must have been Raya sprung up from behind Raymond. Her hand fluttered anxiously about her mouth as her lips rounded out in a shocked gasp. “Oh my gosh, is he okay?”

Jason offered a sympathetic smile. “That’s what I’m trying to find out, ma’am.” He added politely. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

Raymond bristled. “What makes you think we’d know anything?” He snarled. And if that wasn’t suspicious then dress Jason up, find him the nearest rooftop to brood on and call him Batman.

"Haly pointed me this way." He gave a casual shrug. “Said you guys were with him last time he visited.”

Raya’s face brightened. “Yeah, Dick helped out on performances. He’s a real life saver.” Jason almost laughed at the irony. Oh honey you don’t know the half of it. He stifled a giggle, disguising the gurgle to a nervous cough choked awkwardly into his fist. “Any idea where he might have gone if he ran away?”

“None.” Raymond growled shortly. His arms folded tightly into his chest – defensive much? His eyes narrowed to wary slits. “You haven’t introduced yourself yet.”

“Oh I’m er, Jeremy.” Jason lied. “Friend of Dick’s.” He swept his hand, offering it out to his chest in invitation. Raymond eyed the limb as if it had just crawled straight from out of the nearest sewer grate. The tilt of his lip twitched in disdain. He didn’t take it.

“Dick’s never said anything about a Jeremy.” He muttered suspiciously, still glowering rusted daggers as if he wanted nothing better than to pluck the twin blades out of the sockets and use Jason as a pin cushion.

“Ray!” Raya scolded, elbowing her partner solid in the ribs. “Sorry about him,” She breezed apologetically. “He means well. It's just after show stress.” She explained, reaching past to take Jason’s still awkwardly stretched out hand and offer a hurried introduction of “Raya” before dropping the limb, her own fingers playing nervously on the back of her elbow. Her lips crinkled to a soft frown. 

“No its okay," Jason brushed off. "I totally get it, you guys need space." He held up his hands in a brief wave, then thumbed to the direction he'd come. "I’ll just be off then.”

Raya nodded, offering a cheerful but definitely forced farewell. Raymond just shouldered past, muttering about snoopers and trespassers as he slammed the trailer door shut. Jason didn't like the guy, and the feeling was clearly mutual. But something about the performer and his partner was... _off_.

He grimaced as he walked the streets, keeping to the far edge of sidewalk, pushed so far into the side his right shoulder was practically shoved through the wall. He moved quickly, head ducked down and hands shovelled to pockets. The beginnings of a late shower trickled down his back, the sky darkening to a miserable charcoal grey, rolls of dirtied silver pushing out healthy blue as the weather remembered this was  _Gotham_  and that meant it was supposed to be hopelessly depressing 24/7. 

The book jammed against his ribs was heavy as dead lead despite its light weight and small size. He was sure it and the circus had something to do with Dick’s disappearance. Haly had been acting like the world’s most suspicious Santa Claus who had just broken down and robbed the local liquor store at gun point. Raya and Raymond had been hiding something; you didn’t need to be the world’s greatest detective to see that. He just didn’t know what.

But at least he had a lead now, even if it was an inanimate object of only seven names. Something to point the finger to other than the guy staring back at him in the mirror. Who knew, maybe this would finally get Damian jumping off of the Kill Jason bandwagon.

And pigs will fly, the sky will collapse, hell will freeze and Batmen kiss Jokers. He bit back a bitter laugh, shaking his head sadly to himself as he ducked off the street and into a familiar, poorly-lit alley.

“Honey I’m home!” He called jokingly as he strode through the front door, ripping his hood down from his face and throwing the tangle of metal picks to land into the bowl rested on the cabinet beside the frame.

“Fuck.”

His steps stumbled then stilled, horrified exclamation twisting his features as he stared, frozen in place. The cheer gurgled off to die a painful death, butchered by the assassin perched, swinging its legs off the edge like some excited three year old tot, on top of his table.

“Welcome back sugar.” Talon’s mask twitched to suggest the grin pulling the obscured mouth to place. “Made dinner.” The killer announced, one clawed hand rising from off its grip of the table edge, proudly pointing to the war zone of messed dishes and pans stacked in wild array to uneasy towers across the counter. A bowl of something that at some point in its life may once have been chicken soup but was now just nameless gloop spat angry bubbles from the stove.

Jason took one look and found his appetite bidding a hurried farewell as it fled out the front door. He desperately wished he could follow it. Yellow amber eyes blinked oddly out of time, hungrily staring at Jason as if he were the main course.

“Come sit down.” The man chirped excitedly, thumping a clumsily laid table place with the same sort of strength as if the woven reed mat had murdered his mother. Jason grimaced but against his better reservations which were screaming  _gun_ , slowly walked forward, one foot forced in front of the other, sharing all the enthusiasm of a death's row inmate as they trudged along that final mile, to take a reluctant seat.

The assassin beamed. Jason’s face blanched as he shifted uneasily in his chair. Come sit down.  _Said the spider to the fly_.


	7. Killer Come to Dinner

Jason didn’t know how exactly he’d ended up sat across the table from his would be murderer as if at some happy family dinner, with all separating him and the nutcase a bowl of steaming hot ex soup. What he did know was that he and the universe were going to be having some serious words on working conditions. Damians and dicks out for his blood being creepy, safehouse breaking into bastards? Karma was a bitch when you kill people.

His eyes flickered across to his unwanted dinner companion. Now not in the worryingly common situation of fighting for his life, he could finally get a better look at the guy.

Talon was still entirely hidden beneath the shadowed garb dripping off his form, with not even an inch of skin exposed; though he’d guess from height and build the man was young, late teens or early twenties. The costume was much more intricate than he’d first given it credit. Metal wraps set to the shapes of cleverly detailed gold owl faces edged his wrists, whilst pads of ebony night sky clung closely to heavily accentuate the lithe figure, boasting promise of the sculpted muscles that lay below the fabric’s embrace. Each armoured slab was wreathed to a thin leak of golden sunlight to match colour of those unnerving auburn rounds, their lines picked out in delicate swirls of art form.

Weighted buckles climbed Talon's waist and front, held by yet another plate of tanned owl motif. Jason would say the costume was intricate, beautiful even. But he didn't fool himself into thinking it harmless, not when he could see the two sheaths strapped in place against Talon's back that hung empty, the two missing blades currently shoved inconspicuously in a bundle of fuzzed bath towels under a bed back in Bludhaven.

The man’s face was almost totally eclipsed by the so goofy it was almost comical owl hood, the mask complete with its own peeked tiny beak flanked by rising strips of caramel, with all that Jason could go on for knowing of when to zip up and shut up the speed of twitched raven shoulders and those amber eyes that watched him like a hawk - fuck he really had to stop with all the bird metaphor - piercing his own from behind their opaque windows.

The killer hadn’t said anything since inviting him to the table like they were some old married couple. Hadn’t done anything either, but sat and watched him expectantly after placing a bowl of the gloop on the mat in front of him with the excited air of some kid proudly presenting a slice of toast after they’d made breakfast for their sick mother.

Jason ran anxious fingers through the ends of his hair, sorely missing the presence of domino and scarlet plating. Talon must have searched the place and rooted through his stuff before he'd arrived because the biker helmet he so wished was on his head was sat across at the wood’s centre, nestled like some gaudy dinner party decoration between a fractured vase with a clump of what looked suspiciously like an uprooted handful of the rhododendrons kept on next door’s windowsill shoved violently down the glass’s sides.

One hand fell beneath the table, playing a nervous rhythm across his thigh on the slightly reassuring weight of the gun strapped to his leg. Though any reassurance promptly fizzled out when he remembered his dinner guest's aversion to staying dead. “So, you uh, made soup huh.” He supplied dumbly, staring in dazed stupor at the killer seated opposite.

He blinked confusion away as the assassin who had fallen into a state of musical statue jerked to life, a shudder running through the previously inanimate form, at the start of conversation.

“It, -I ma-de so-up.” The Talon muttered brokenly, stuttering poor pronunciations as if experimenting with each word for the first time. “Not just soup.” The voice grew slightly in confidence, uneasy stammer switching to a petulant mumble. The lines of mask twitched to accommodate for what seemed an almost puppyish hurt pout. “Chicken soup.”

“You broke into my place, to… make chicken soup.” Jason muttered disbelievingly, his mouth pursing into a doubtful question.

Talon’s voice fell to a hiss, the man leaning forward as if readying to throw himself across the table as his personality suddenly flipped a sharp 180. “You were gone.” He growled accusingly. Clawed fingers scraped the edges of the kitchen table, cleaving gashes through solid wood. Jason winced at the sharpened gurgles of crunches of polished oak that could all too easily be replaced to bone. “You left but did not come back.”

"I left." He echoed hollowly. “So you followed me back here, slipped through all my security and made soup.”

“Chicken soup.” A low snarl rumbled the back of Talon’s throat, the bulk bristling as if insulted as he leaned forward, dangerously hissing his correction.

“Chicken soup.” Jason repeated numbly.

“You look, thin.” The killer rasped, struggling each of the words out. “Too- little. Not, eating.”

Great. His would be murderer was giving him dieting tips. Or fattening him up. Jason’s gaze fell to the covered mask, wondering if the guy had a set of pearly whites to give Dracula fang envy to go with the monster eyes. With all the shit he’d seen, it wouldn’t surprise him.

“Gee, I dunno, it’s almost like something’s been causing me stress lately.” He ground harshly, words dripped in weighty sarcasm as his own temper flared angrily up. 

Talon ignored him, gurgled crunches sputtering off as talons unhooked from their carved places. The man jabbed a clawed finger to the bowl, simply stating “Eat.” And Jason wasn’t about to start arguing with a guy who could probably pin him down within seconds and whose back up business names probably included Raptor Claws, Violent Tendencies and Anger Issues.

He stared suspiciously at the bowl, lifting the spoon placed off his left to cautiously prod the surface. The metal sank poorly through the slime, pulling up a chunk of near cremated chicken flesh. “You didn’t uh, poison that, did you?”

“Where would the fun be in that?” Talon croaked a low, rusty chuckle, yellowed orbs dancing to the ghost of amusement before they startled and froze back to place; the laugh dying abruptly on the guy’s hidden lips.  “No, Little Wing, I did not. You will know when I kill you. You will feel my fingers close around your throat as your life spills to the floor and stare into my eyes as your thump beats slowly down to a stop.”

Jason shivered as he looked his Death in the eye. Great. Now sure he’d be the most paranoid idiot this side of Gotham for at least the next month, he took a hesitant sip of the probably not poisoned chicken soup.

“Mmm,” he smiled thinly, pushing a weak thumbs up as he forced the swill down. “Uh, tasty.”

Talon’s eyes widened out as he beamed, straightening his height at the praise before they scrunched in confusion, falling on the uneasy slump of Jason’s shoulders as he stiltedly lifted the instrument. “You’re injured.” The assassin stated, puzzled, as the head snapped unnaturally to one side.

Jason coughed awkwardly. “Yeah, well I got into this fight with a guy down at the docks.” He confessed, nervously massaging one of many of the angry lumps formed off his shoulder from the encounter.

Yellowed rounds narrowed to furious slits. “You should be more careful of activities. Your death is mine alone to have.”

"Wow, Talon." A thin but surprisingly genuine smile chased the grimace from Jason’s lips. “That almost sounded caring.”

“You know me.” The assassin giggled, demeanour once again moving to a giddy child who had just discovered some amazing new thing to their world. One clawed hand lifted to point into his chest proudly.

Jason shrugged. “Yeah, Court of Owls, nursery rhyme, 21st century Internet. Wasn’t hard to find. Or figure out.” His hand waved off dismissal before breezing the thinned layer of stubble crowning his muzzle. He stretched his legs out and eased back into his chair, looping one arm casually over the wooden back to a lengthy sigh. “They sent the Talon for my head. So tell me, how’d I manage to piss a bunch of suckers I’ve never even met off enough to want me dead?”

“Do not insult the Court.” Talon snapped viciously, excitable infant turned predator once more. But there was a hesitance, a flinch that accompanied the snap as he cowered back like some cornered animal, that almost suggested the man was bracing for violent consequence.

“Okay, okay, go Team Court.” Jason held both of his hands in surrender before fixing his opposite with a lopsided grin. “Bet they’re not happy with you though. I’m still breathing.”

Talon shifted his bulk uncomfortably; ruffling his costume like it was the actual feathers the designs were meant as. For the first time Jason had met him, the collection of black mass and leather straps actually seemed almost human. It was strange; the killer who previously had so effortlessly overpowered years of intense combat training suddenly looked so vulnerable. “They…do not know.” He admitted slowly, broken voice hoarse.

“Going against orders huh?" Jason teased a wry smile, cracking a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, I can dig it, never was the best at listening to others myself.”

He blinked and in that moment Talon had leapt, impossibly covering the stretch of table between them in a matter of seconds.

Suddenly Jason was yanked roughly from his seat, his body slammed hard into the fridge behind, the impact upsetting each purplish welt littering his back. His lips twisted to voice a painful ‘oof’ only for the sound to be croaked to distortion, the claws that had viciously impaled the table now smothering his neck.

He snarled, staring up to bright eyes bridled to animalistic rage that met his own, the assassin’s face now pressed inches from his as he leaned his body tighter into Jason’s personal space.

“ **I am not going against anything.** ” The killer snarled, words spitting darkened fury. “You will die, Little Wing.” The voice softened out to an almost loving gentle murmur as the claws that laced his throat tightened their grip, sharp pricks of pain searing the outsides of his gullet as the bastard drew thin lines of blood. “Soon, and I will be the one to kill you.”

“Well don’t that just make me feel all warm and cosy inside?” Jason snapped, chords bobbing violently against the hands wrapping them in place. “Listen beautiful, can we call a rain check on the murder threats? It’s been one hell of a long day and if you're not here to do the deed, I have an intimate appointment with a pillow that began five minutes ago.”

“I suppose you are still interesting enough to allow continuation.” Talon grumbled discontentedly, slightly easing his grip and allowing for Jason's joyful re-acquaintance with oxygen.

“Great.” Jason gurgled weakly, patting one of the padded arms still sternly anchoring his place. “Then if you’d please kindly get the fuck out of my face and place.”

Amber eyes glared through him and for a moment Jason was sure Talon was going to finish the job he had been sent to do, the rounds almost entirely devoured by hooded blood lust. But then they blinked, flashing momentary confusion before returning to their normal cooled stare.

“Remember, Little Wing, I am always watching. _Always._ ” The assassin emphasised darkly, reluctantly easing his body away from Jason.

He caught a sparing glance of beautifully formed ass as Talon climbed the rafters, a blink and you'll miss it kind of moment. And then he was totally gone. Eerily silent and leaving no clue of his presence as ever having been but the decimated wasteland of kitchen and the memory of those claws choked around Jason's throat. As expertly trained in the Ninja School of Disappearing Shit as any of the Bat family.

Jason stared at the spot of air that only seconds before had been occupied by the man, wrenching disbelieving fingers over his eyes, the threat still dully echoing in his ears.

Yeah well, he hadn’t needed sleep anyway.

**~   ҉   ~**

 

Talon stiffened as it slipped back into the gutter of Gotham’s underbelly, its head drooping, already mourning the skies stretched above as it bid regretful farewell to the comfort of sweet air and entered the choking clog of musk. It croaked a tired sigh. Interactions with the Hood were as extremely confusing as always. Talon had had the perfect opportunity to kill the man. And yet instead it had plucked flowers off the sill next door and formed a meal for its intended hit. Not to feed toxins or acids to cease those faint whispers of breath, but because some part cried when it saw the man missing meals.

It wrenched claws through its figure, pulling at its costumed skin as if hoping to find the thing that protested its kill and rip it _off_ , but the annoyance remained firmly stuck in its hiding place, continuing to murmur sharp protest whenever Talon toyed with the idea of snapping Hood’s neck.

It slunk dejectedly through the muck, head still buzzing as it fought to make sense of the myriad of emotions warring its mind, fear that threatened to overthrow all to instinct of  _run_ building to dizzying levels with every weary step forced through the river of sewage as it made its reluctant journey.

Obeying the Court was _good._

Step.

Killing Hood was _go- bad._

Step.

Obedience was _good. R_ _equired_.

Step.

Disobedience was _bad. Feared. **Punished**_.

Stop.

It halted dead, grunting as if an animal lost in pain, pulling a hand to the grimy wall to steady its balance. Its head rose briefly to eye the tunnel down its right that tugged its concentration with magnetic pull, gaze falling, picking out every detail in perfect picture despite the shrouded coils of darkness staining the scene, to the corridor it knew as one of the many lain beneath the city that would lead it back to those it called Master.

It realised then, that following Hood back to Gotham had left it no excuse. Talon had to return to the Court. Without its blades. Without a kill. With its existence known to the living as more than a simple bed monster for younglings to dread.

Its fingers dipped over the fabric suffocating its skin, skimming its arms to trace the swirls of crimson that would soon decorate the bleached canvas. 

It moaned sadly, keening a whimper as its head dropped further.  

Talon had _failed_. The Court would not be pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't quite agree on which rating to settle for, so at the moment there isn't one. Just know that there is going to be smut, though that will have plenty of warning beforehand. 
> 
> Until Saturday,  
> ~MUI


	8. Closed Eyes Beneath Free Skies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - suggested non con

Eyes snapped shut

Breaths sharpened rattles

Legs caged to its chest with its head curled between.

_“I’m always watching, Li **t** tl **e** **W** i **ng**. Always.”_

_L i   t    t       l      e       w      i        n          g_

_“T_o slo_, Little Wing.” He l_ughed, whoop_ng as he t_ok the rooftop, spri_ting off the edg_ and_

_flipping h_s body in graceful turns before l_nding acr_ss the oth_r sid_ of the ch_sm as b_hind him_

_gr_en, **red** , yell_w chu_ged bre_th a_d an_rily sho_ted pr_tests of “n_t fairs” and “head sta_ts”  as _

_th_y_

_ch_sed hi_ sh_dow. “Ca_ch m_ if y_u can!” _e gig_ed, gri_ning m_nically as he b_oke the sprint to_

_stop, tw_sting his b_dy rou_d and fli_ping a che_ry wave to h_s yo_ng pur_uer bef_re tur_ing a_d to_

_the ho_rified shr_ek of th_ one beh_nd,_

_joyf_lly lau_ching him_elf off_

_the e_ge and i_to gr_vity._

Talon shook its head angrily, as if hoping to tip the irritating thoughts _out._ He, **_it_** choked breath, managing a staggered gurgle before suddenly it was pulled back under the jumble, thickened muck dragging it deeper, deeper until darkness filled hi- ** _its_** mouth, swamping its lungs and it panicked it couldn’t breathe _but it didn’t need to breathe_ and suddenly it was screaming _but its mouth was closed_ and its howls flooded the room, violently tearing the walls open _but no sound was coming out_

_“yaJ!” He cal_ed, sco_ping the b_wl ont_ a tr_y. He pl_stered a gr_n o_er the gri_ace, for_ing bri_htn_ss as he m_de his w_y up the st_ps and th_ough the m_ze of co_ridors to t_e si_k boy’s ro_m. “I m_de dinner.”_

_Jnaso rai_ed an e_ebrow at t_e ‘din_er’ as it w_s thr_st into his l_p. ”Re_lly?” He sn_rted. “Y_u? ciDk yasGrno, Dis_ster Ch_f, ma_e so_p?”_

_kDic ga_ped, ha_rumphi_g indig_antly as he li_ted o_e fi_ger in sc_lding. “N_t just soup. **Ch_cken** so_p, **Lit_le Wing**. For little_ Rob_ns to gr_w big and str_ng. E_t up.”_

_sJaon’s lips tw_tched up_n the first sp_onful. He ga_ged on the second, his f_ce scrunching up e_tirely on the third. “Dammit kcDi.” He gro_ned, face pe_ped out fr_m the th_rty or so bl_nkets stubb_rnly cling_ng his fig_re. “I kn_w you we_e tryi_g to f_cking p_ison me.”_

Talon wrenched itself free from the muck, gasping like a drowning man dragged from the ocean before they can take that final bathump of life as it met reality once more. Which was strangely curious because Talon was now almost certain it didn’t need air because what need do the dead have for oxygen?

Eyes flitted nervously to the bricks laid above, a clawed hand rising to pick wearily at its face. The dream. The same two men. Though both had been younger that time. Less lines of life scarred to their faces. One barely breaking adulthood, and the other just a child. Talon grunted. Their identities were so close yet never enough to pluck into sense and when it made any attempt to stumble after the question that small little sense plummeted off a cliff, dragging Talon’s body hurtling after it.

The two boy-men.

 It felt like it knew them both. Since before the Court.

Its body stuttered, mind crashed to a sudden halt.

There was no before the Court, w a    s      t    h  e   r   e  .    .      .?

It gave a frustrated growl, swiping the thin sheet covers from off its form and slipping unsteadily from the low cot.

It pulled armour to itself, gratefully sliding the pieces over the scape of sickened mottle marble. A low hiss caught its throat, a flicker of a wince dyeing its lips as one latched plate dug into the ditch carved into its front, the opened fissure still not fully laced shut from the previous night.

It fled the room, wrenching the door to slip silently through spun walls of endless corridors and take refuge as it always did whenever dreams became unbearable, in the violence of combat.

The room was empty and for that it felt a small flush of **something** , _relief_. It had no desire for its mental wrestling to be gawked at by the ones so adamant that it should feel **nothing**. It was not that Talon was going against its Masters, but it knew from past failings their tool had to be blissful perfection, unfeeling, unthinking with nothing to life other than the completion of duty. Anything else was unnecessary and would be _removed_.

And though it couldn’t voice why, Talon did not want the images of the men taken from its mind. So it had kept the entirety of its failings like a guilty little child harboured secrets. It hadn’t wanted to, but truth meant the Little Hood would be gone, and no no no Talon did not want that and so for the first time since the start of debriefings it had stooped to the ground, opened its mouth and had _lied_.

It leapt, throwing its body to the sky, twisting its legs to take seat on the dummy’s front, its hands curling to snare the mannequin’s throat _we don’t kill_ a sharp twist shattering silence before it flew off the body, _why not, ruecB, they’re criminals?_  Flipping graceful twirls to ensnare the next, smashing thighs into steel hold around the waist and squeezing tight, _Because then we’re no better than they are._ A sick crunch narrating the thud of weighted head lopped to the ground.

It moved to the shelves at the room’s sides, wanting, _needing_ to feel weight to its hands. It selected four twigs from the range, plucking and throwing slightly up to experiment, twirling razors over fingers before hurling each with perfect accuracy in graceful sweeps to embed pointed ends into flimsy foreheads but it still **wasn’t enough**. It paused, breathing uneven and unsteadily, before its hands fell to Hood’s _we don’t use_ gun.

It was a funny thing. Talon didn’t often use guns. The Court preferred the blade for execution, silenced, steady. A bullet could be plucked out easily. It left a link that could be traced back, nigh impossible, but doable with the right type of _bat_ gear.

But it had lost its blades. And it knew how to shoot. It sat in its hands, hardened body cold and as dead as the corpses it left. Talon cocked the safety off. Held it to its chest. Fired. Drew the line expertly. Aimed perfectly. And missed.

The bullet buried into textile, poorly glancing the doll’s side. A flesh wound. Easy to remove. Not even enough for blood loss to finish the kill. It dropped the gun back to its hip, hurriedly drawing a knife from the stand and leaping, dragging the body to the ground and slamming the blade through the chest, driving it again and again to puncture lungs, guts, stomach, heart. Each organ ruptured to pinpointed accuracy. It fell vindictively to, striking over and over until the one beneath it was a bloody pulp of unrecognisable mess.

“Beautiful. Quite, quite beautiful.”

Talon paused, its figure entirely frozen mid strike, halting the massacre immediately. The knife above its head fell to its waist as it moved from off the corpse to swoop to the man’s side. It felt a needle of, _fear_ , as it bowed its head, respectfully dropping to one knee.

_Master kneel loyal obey._

“One wonders how such a creature can be so truly magnificent.” The spectre marvelled breathlessly as Talon placed a reverent kiss to the slender fingers stretched to its lips. It remained silent, watching the mask loomed above; eyes locked to the bleach ivory plaque, body paused, expectantly waiting for a command that came soon after.

“Come, my Gray Son.” Words dripped muffled from behind the slate, clipped tones ringing harsh from hidden lips. “I require your service in my chambers. You have not long returned and we have much to discuss.”

“Yes, Grandmaster.” Talon murmured, its head hung submissively as it stood, falling into line to meekly follow behind the man as he led it back through the maze and into a different but equally as known room. It schooled its expression, seeing little of the need for plush carpet, expensive plum drapes, velvet couches and elegant furnishings.  

And yet it could not prevent the flinch.

Talon’s features fell, betraying its feeling as it reeled back on entry, burning to shame beneath the leader’s  chuckles. “Ah yes, our one failing. Perhaps the scene is too bright for those pretty eyes?”

“No, Sir.” Talon whispered brokenly.

“Such beautiful eyes.” Sir continued in a simpered purr, making a hum of appreciation as Talon stilled, forcing its composure as furious buzz echoed, fingers cruelly rapping against mask windows before they gave away to allow the man leaning in closer, hungering his lust in flimsy cooed words to the sides of covered ears.  Talon remained still, frozen rigid as a motionless doll, as the invading hands pulled the mask from its face and yanked roughly through its exposed mess.

“Strip.” Sir ordered in strict bark. “Show me my work.” Talon didn’t falter at the feral growl, obeying and stiffly shedding the armour slab by slab from off its figure. It stared ahead, unwavering, as a slimed appendage wrapped its flesh and scratching stubs slid strips through Talon’s neck.

“Your mouth.” Sir commanded. “Do not silence it. Let me hear that sweet song.”

It moaned as needed when the man leaned further, locking limbs around Talon’s waist to drag it across the covers. It closed its eyes and threw its head back, remaining rigidly still as touch descended.

“Yes my Gray Son. “ Talon squirmed as rancid breath puffed hot trickles across its lobe. “You are without doubt my proudest triumph of all.”

 Talon muted its wallowed cries, torn to silent sorrow as silk cut its shoulder blades and duck down seared its skin and tried to pretend it didn’t dream of nights spent free on rooftops beneath a full moon in glorious flight.


	9. On Thin Ice

He adjusted his stance, leaning forward over the railings and allowed his voice to take on a bored drawl. “William Cobb, Alton Carver, Calvin Ross. Ring any bells?”

The book remained his one lead to Dick’s disappearance; the only clue those seven names scrawled inside, each seemingly entirely random. The whole thing was extremely confusing. He self-consciously rubbed over the patch of still raw throat, sorely missing the days when birdbrained bat brats stayed annoying but unabducted assholes and killers aimed through your chest rather than showing up unannounced at your not so safehouse to cook dinner.

“Never heard of em.”  Thinned lips snapped in a tone that once upon a time might have even been intimidating, if it wasn’t for the raven suit jacket tails dripping from the back of skull like a comical pair of oversized bunny ears.

Jason clucked his tongue, shaking his head and tutting a finger at the man dangled upside by his overgrown flippers. “Whah whow. Wrong answer. Pick again or birdy goes bye bye.” He levelled the gun to a satisfying panicked tweat. “Permanently.”

Jason’s toes curled pitifully in their padded coffins. It had been insultingly easy to deal with the dim-witted goons of so called security; the temperature, however, was a different matter. The Iceberg Lounge, true to its namesake, was arctic condition ice cool. Its host, on the other hand, was not. Snapped irritancy turned frantic as normally collected demeanour broke down to a violent, thrashing mess. Bleached pallor inflated to burnished lobster as clawed scoops of hands grabbed at air in cartoonish lemme at em’ motions. “Blundering buffoon, how many times must I repeat myself, I don’t know!”

Jason’s lips pursed to a heavy sigh of disappointment. He leaned weight onto one knee and casually slammed the trigger, impaling the nearest wall with the new trendy decoration of bullet hole. The roll of blubber shrieked, cowering as the metal chip skimmed sallow cheeks. “See I’d almost believe that Ozzers, but nothing goes down in Gotham without Penguin knowing at least something of it.”

Frantic squeaks fell from the oversized hook of beak, arms peddling wide flails as strength of cable fought it out with the laws of nature. Tiny beaded eyes screwed as they followed the brim of top hat peaked above the waves below, withering to a grimace as miniature tsunamis lashed the sides of walls, the accessory having drawn the attention of the hungrily circling leopard seals that too many a time Jason had gotten far too close and personal with.

Shit. A darkened shadow falling across the skylight – it’s called a door, Bruce, _door,_ a wondrous invention that doesn’t result in picking off fifty or so glass shards out of your arm and a matching set of broken ankles every time you made an entrance – told him time was up. The Bat family had gotten word of Hood’s evening activity, knowing his current run over a black cat luck either Bruce, Damian or both, and he was in no mood to deal with either of them.

He saluted the villain with a cheery wave. Time to go.

He’d by lying if he said it wasn’t with somewhat vindictive glee that he moved his aim from the man’s head to the rope lashed around Cobblepot’s feet, popping off a shot to a startled squawk as gravity took its cue. A mad grin pulled his lips into a sickle as he made his exit, dashing out the double doors of kitchen service as the night sky exploded.

He had a happy skip to his step as he ran, weaving past polished sheen table counters laden with cooking instruments and crockery, and throwing walls behind him, though he was sure that whichever Bat it was wouldn’t follow, would ruthlessly stick to script and save the villain rather than give chase to any potential threat. It was hard not to smile, with Oz’s terrified yelps following his back, the splash of water accompanied by horrendous wails as the man attempted to avoid becoming dinner for his own pets.

How he’d managed to even get a hold of, let alone be allowed to _keep_ a pair of murderous 3.5metre, 1,320 lb of nope was anyone’s guess. Although more prominent was the question of why seals – then again, an angry mob of murderous emperor penguins could hardly be counted as intimidating.  

It was only after he’d made it out the back door and was swinging his body easily into the saddle of the motorcycle parked hidden in the alley that the smile finally slid from off his face, wiped clean to horrified epiphany.  

He had plied every source he knew, every contact, called in every favour every two bit criminal owed him. And come up with nothing. Slade was the only other option and he was desperate but not that desperate, not yet. There was no way in hell he was about to go running for the killer to lord over as he begged and scraped for breadcrumbs.

His sources had failed and for once the wonder team of world web and caffeine wasn’t going to cut it. He was loathe to admit it, but he needed the Bat Computer. He needed Timothy Drake.

* * *

 

The pickup was so instant he had to wonder if the boy had been waiting specifically for it. _“Jason?”_ Tim’s voice quirked drily. _“Wasn’t expecting you to call. To what do I owe the pleasure?”_

“Cut the crap.” Jason snapped, growling as his body flopped angrily onto the couch. He’d delayed the inevitable until he’d gotten back to his place. He hated asking for help and no Robin, Red or blue, would ever make doing so easy, or allow him to forget. That he had would be rudely shoved in his face in every conversation they shared for at least the next year.  

Four words. Just say them. His teeth gritted as he flayed each off his tongue. “I need a favour.”

 _“Course you do. No one ever calls just to say hi anymore.”_ Tim muttered mournfully, the unspoken _not since Dick_ hanging between them awkwardly _._

“Yeah well it’s about Dick.” Jason muttered, annoyance rising. He forced his tone to even. “I’m not sure but I think I found a lead. Slade pointed me to the circus where Haly had some book with our AWOL relation in its star mentions.”

 _“Had?”_ Tim echoed questioningly.

Low level charge of minor theft. Of course that’s what Tim would take from it. Daddy’s little detective, always seeing the bigger picture.

“It may or may not have passed into new ownership.” Jason breezed airily, waving a hand away dismissively as he settled his legs over the ends of the settee. “But that’s beside the point. The thing is, the book has other names, but no one has ever heard of them. Not even Penguin.”

Tim was silent for a moment, probably processing the new information, before he spoke. He gave a huff of affront, though the tone beneath played to thin humour. _“So you’re using me as a glorified google search.”_

“Yep.” Jason grinned, his lips smacking together to pop the p. “But until there’s solid evidence, this stays between us.”

_“But Bruce-“_

“No buts.” He interrupted over, voice firm. “I’m only sharing with the class if the big man stays out.”

Silence followed, the boy weighing up the positive of a lead to the consequence of when a pissed Batman found out. A huff of sigh came down the line, resigned to its fate. _“Fine. Give me the names. I’ll do what I can.”_

“Alton Carver, Calvin Ross, William Cobb.” He listed them off, fingers hovering to cut the line when he paused. “And uh, where’s Damian?”

Tim snickered, his voice light to thinly veiled amusement. _“Why? Wanting to know when to plan your funeral?”_

Jason blanched, colour fleeing his face. “Shit, he’s that mad?”

_“Oh he’s furious. I think the training dummies got the worst deal though. A’s still looking for the heads.”_

Jason groaned, worriedly scrubbing his cheeks. “I’m so dead, aren’t I?”

 _“As a door nail.”_ Tim’s tone turned smug. _“But you still have two days to live. Alf has him on forty eight hour lockdown. He’s up in his room now.”_

Sick huh? So it had been a tete a tete with Bruce he’d avoided tonight.

Jason grinned, remembering his own experiences of illnesses spent round the butler. It happened often enough; villains didn’t tend to care enough to run the heating bill up for vigilantes dumb enough to fall into their traps, and the Robin short shorts weren’t exactly the snuggest when stuck in Freeze’s minus a thousand degrees laboratory.

The days after were usually far worse than the days of, rescue seeing a forced quarantine swaddled to a good fifty blankets and surrounded with enough boxes of Kleenex to account for the entire destruction of the Amazon rainforest. 

“Any chance you can keep him off my back?” He asked hopefully.

 _“Sorry Jay._ “ And now the bastard wasn’t even trying to hide his smugness. “ _That’s one type of crazy I’m not touching.”_

“Well fuck you too, asshole.” Jason snarled angrily.

“ _Language_.” Tim chided in a small, tinny voice, the word trailing off into a low hiccup. Jason swallowed thickly, his mouth dry. It was unnerving how wrong the flimsy imitation sounded.

“ _Hey Jason_ ,” Tim paused, floundering for breath. “ _I just wanted to say, uh, thank you_.”

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me idiot.” Jason's voice fell into a simmered growl. “I’m only doing this to get Damian off my back and clear Red Hood’s name.”

“ _I don’t care. You’re helping bring him home._ ” The teen stopped, voice choked to emotion.  " _I miss him_.”

Jason spoke quietly, too quietly for the boy to hear anything other than low incoherent mumble as he stared sadly, mournful gaze sweeping over the wood chunk rafter ceiling. “We all do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And hey, if you ever wanna stop by and say hello or pop a question, I just climbed out of the hole I've called home for the last six years and finally joined the society of tumblr http://mindlessthoughtsofawildmui.tumblr.com/


	10. Birds of a Feather

Red Hood only co-opped with the Bat when there was serious threat. Like one batboy down and a Joker loose on the streets with promise of one seriously big boom ready to blow.

“Comish,” Jason flaunted a joking salute as he landed, for his own safety choosing to ignore the answering “-Tt-“ and glare that could thaw flesh from bone if ever weaponised from Robin as his hand fell away from plated helmet. From the other side of the roof Tim shot him a small, sympathetic smile, though the expression soon wilted off the boy’s lips as Damian turned the death glare to a new target.

Jason ignored that too, crossing his arms into plush padding of biker jacket and in a fuck you to Bruce, leaned his body back, casually resting against the bat signal.

“Hood.”

Having had the you wouldn’t believe how fun experience of being pulled to the station more times than he had fingers and toes to count as a kid after being caught  _borrowing_ supplies, he’d never been the largest fan of the police. Hours spent in sweaty backs of cruisers, cramped cell lockups and dingily lit offices had taught him that all pigs were corrupt idiots with a thing against street rats only working to the call of whoever paid high enough, but somehow he could never bring himself to hate Jim Gordon.

The man was a damn good soul who, unlike the majority of blue and blacks that had thrown the towel in long ago, was actually doing his best to help his city. Even if that effort, thanks to Bruce’s no kill rule and the ever revolving door of Arkham, was about as useful as bailing buckets of water out of a hole-punched, rapidly sinking rowboat.

Despite the harsh exterior of seriousness, he was a friendly, cuddly teddy bear of a man. All packed into the form of baggy, beige overcoat, and with his moon-shaped spectacles balanced delicately off the ridge of ragged nose and weathered wisps of silver clinging worn face; Gordon was the kind of kickass cool grandpa a kid bragged about in the delicacy of playground politics.

“So where is the B man?” He forced his gaze away from the comfort of Gordon and to a nervously stood Tim. He grimaced, holding back a shiver of discomfort as Damian sensed the new attention, sporting rows of sharpened dentals in a feral gnashed snarl from his place behind the teen. One arm unfolded from his chest for gloved knuckles to lightly rap the surface of illuminated screen. “Ain’t like him to miss his alarm.”

Damian forgot his big boy words and devolved back to senseless mutt, giving a murderous growl that showed exactly how over the entire push-you-into-freezing-cold-water-to-save-your-life thing he was.

 _“Robin_.” Tim scolded scathingly before his shoulders slumped in a dejected sigh. His pitch dropping, falling into a low whisper. “He’s coming. Just busy dealing with… stuff.” The Robin added wearily in a despaired voice that almost had Jason asking for more.

Which was when Bruce, dramatic as always, finally decided to make his entrance. And suddenly Jason didn’t need to ask Boy Wonder 3.0 anything. Because even hidden behind the suit, Bruce looked  _awful_. Like hit by a truck and then run over by a second, much larger truck, awful. The part of his face that could be seen from the cowl was haggard, worn lines crinkled to the corners of bleached lips impossibly aged twenty years since the time Jason had last seen him. Even the way he held himself had changed, the confidence swept aside to a shell of former self, this man cringing in on himself, back stooped and figure cowed, as if waiting for the universe to launch that next left hook to his gut.

At the sight of the ruined mess, he couldn’t help but feel a prickle of  _something_ , couldn’t stop a traitorous thought from wondering if this was what the man had become when it was Jason gone silent, Jason’s body missing, Jason’s death presumed. 

“Jim.” Batman greeted in disgruntled gravel, and Jason stared, stupefied, as the set line opened ever so slightly to waft a thin but unmistakeable bitter stench of whiskey. The infallible Batman, was drunk on the job?

Plain relief softened Gordon’s features as fingers reflexively pushed glasses further up the hook of nose. “Batman, thank God. It’s chaos out there, mass hysteria. Joker’s loose, we’ve got men out everywhere, but none of my people can find him and we’re stretched thin as it is.” The digits fell to worriedly pull over stubble-pecked muzzle. “The city’s one bomb blast away from full scale rioting.”

Something about the panic in Gordon’s voice seemed to draw some shadow of the former Caped Crusader out of the mess the suit had become, Bruce, sensing the weight of the situation somehow finding the shovel to dig the walking corpse he’d become halfway out of the grave. His body pulled upright, throat rumbling to a gruff but determined “Look after the citizens. Leave Joker to us.” He turned to the Robins, brought back to life in his element, barking out quick orders.

“Divide up. Red Robin take Ace Chemicals, Robin, Joker’s last hideout. I’ll cover the old funfair. Red Hood, Laffco toy factory.”

“I suppose it’s set blasters to stun?” Jason asked cagily, cursing Dick’s name as he realised what he’d just said.  In his mind an image of a grinning Dick Grayson flashed a full mouth of spotless whites as he cheerily flipped fingers into a victory signal. Jason barely bit back a groan. The movie nerd’s dorkiness had apparently infected a new victim.

“We don’t kill.” Bruce growled flatly.

 _No, we just incapacitate into near coma states in Mortal Combat levels of take downs._  Jason shook his head, the side flinching as if irritated by the buzz of a stray fly, as Dick’s voice cheerily whispered in his ear.

“Sure, I’ll remember to tell that to the guy you put into intensive care last week.” Jason sniped waspishly, but Bruce gave no response, had already retreated back into awkward silence.

Orders given, Jason wasn’t going to hang around as the unwanted fifth wheel. He launched himself from the roof, grappling away quickly. Not quickly enough to miss the exchange between the two.

“Still no sign of him then?” Jim asked softly.

“No.” Bruce replied, and Jason, as he disappeared into the shadow of night, tried his damndest to pretend he didn’t hear that unbreakable voice crack in half to mournful grief.

…

With a name like Laffco and the giant clown’s face hanging over anyone dumb enough to try and get in, it was almost like the owners had _wanted_ Joker to turn their cosy, rundown factory into one giant death-trap. Jason gritted his teeth at the sight of the monstrosity, not bothering to glance down as he carefully skirted around the face of skylight. He didn't need to look to answer the persisting question of how high up he was, he already knew that it was enough to for one slip up to leave a splattered jam stain of left-footed vigilante off the sidewalk.

He turned from the window, grapple in hand, a flash of movement in the reflection behind him causing him to spin round, pulling his gaze up.

Jason didn’t normally scream, but he’d admit it was hard not to shriek like a high-pitched schoolgirl just spotted their crush when a bulk of night sky moved, detaching itself from the charcoal canvas and dropping, falling out of the heavens like some goddamn avenging angel, onto his shoulders.  Jason blinked stars from his vision, finding himself suddenly staring at cold, hard, concrete.

“Uncle,” he called in a strangled gurgle, one hand weakly pawing at the leg pressing his back into the rooftop. He sighed in relief as the weight lifted away; pulling himself up to glower at the silently laughing assassin smugly stood to meet his glare off his side.

“You know, most people say hello,” he muttered grouchily, to which Talon’s amusement only grew.

“But I am not most people.” Muffled words echoed tauntingly from behind the folds of mask.

Jason eyed the guy who could easily take the prize for best dressed at Gotham's annual Halloween parade. “No shit.” He remarked crossly, angrily rubbing the bruise forming over his stomach. “Sorry T, can’t play tonight.”

“But I want to.”

“I mean it,” he snapped as the assassin showed no sign of leaving. “Not now, okay birdie boy?”

Eyes kindled alive, or as much alive as able for the undead killer, to new interest. Talon leaned forward, unnervingly hungrily. “You are busy?”

“Saving lives, shooting fools, not dying to over obsessive stalkers, yeah sorry, my schedule’s booked.” He grouched sarcastically.

Jason figured he’d screwed up when suddenly the air was knocked straight from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, his head was slammed into the wall, an arm wrapped around his throat in a now painfully familiar position as Talon pressed his face close.

“Careful, little bird. Too much of a fire and your pretty wings will get burned.”

Jason opened his mouth, about to offer the every witty genius comeback of  _yeah well, fuck you_. Only Red Robin interrupted first.

“ _Nothing at Ace._ ” He cursed his abysmally shitty luck as Tim's voice resonated the insides of his helmet.

“ _No explosives this end.”_ Damian immediately jumped in, clipped tones informing brusquely.

And then, the epitome of perfect timing as always, bloody Bruce joined in.  _“Hood?”_

“Answer it.” Talon lifted his hand from Jason’s throat, one clawed finger rising to press over the space Jason guessed were his lips. “And not a word of me.”

Jason nodded stiffly. His mouth suddenly dry as he spoke into the helmet’s inner panels. “Not sure, haven’t been in to check yet.”

 _“Lives are at stake Hood.”_ Curt tones replied flatly.

And there it was. The unspoken judgement. The silent Dick could have done it better. Dick would have been in, found the bomb and disarmed it by now.  Dick would already have the Joker, hands cuffed behind plum dinner suit tails, as he cheerily dropped playful quips into the comm lines.

“I know B. You do your job, I’ll do mine.” Jason snapped, cutting the line dead before Bruce could respond.

Talon's stare hungered, the lines of mask twitching in time to a long drawn, deliberate swallow. “You are playing with the Bat.”

“Only tonight. Joker’s got fireworks planned.”

“Oh. The thumps.”

“You can hear those?” Jason's voice rose incredulously. 

Talon tilted his head curiously. “You can’t?”

“No, jeez, how? There’s like four layers of solid stone.”

Jason’s eyes boggled as the man reached a hand up to tap the side of what he guessed was his nose, a yellowed orb slowly closing then reopening to a clumsy wink. “Trade secret.”

Talon gave a throaty chuckle, before falling suddenly silent, retreating back into unnervingly quiet state.

Jason asked, voice timidly hopeful. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where?”

“And why should I?”

Jason thought back to all the times he’d been able to talk the assassin out of taking his head. “Because it’ll be interesting." He blurted. "And you like interesting.”

The eyes crinkled to what he hoped was a less murderous grin. “Hum, I do. Fine, I’ll take you to it.”

Talon moved his body off, and Jason breathed a small sigh of relief, though any happiness soon died to a feeling of ridiculous as he followed, a sharp snicker escaping his lips as he let his pet bomb sniffing owlman take the lead.

 

With the strung up lines of lifeless dolls, shadows thrown to new life on dingy cracked walls and all together just general heebie jeebie creepiness, the insides of Laffco were like a scene ripped straight out of some r-rated Scooby Doo episode. The kind that Dick had always forced him to watch every Saturday morning, seating his body back into a warm lap and locking steel arms around his waist to tether him in place on the couch as above his head excited tones chattered away over who the creep in the monster mask so obviously was. 

But this wasn't some hacked off banker after some pretty jewel, and instead of the Joker's usual overdone prank of one dead bird left in his latest haunt there were two strung up in the doorway. The poor things were dangled, one copper but one a beautiful blue, both their feathered coats stained an ugly red, bloodied feet lashed in place from the top ledge to barbed wire. A tremble ran down his spine, the unseeing glazed eyes catching his own, played over to the obnoxious laugh that, as if sensing the lack in some other, crackled abruptly to life.

Jason's body froze, mind crashed to a standstill. Suddenly he was transported back to the nearly abandoned warehouse as that same laughter asked which hurt worse, A or B. except this time it wasn’t his body the crowbar came down on. It was Dick’s.

Dick’s gurgled screech jamming Dick’s throat. Dick’s face beaten to near unrecognisable pump after Dick’s spit landed to stubbornly stain sallow bone white cheek. Dick’s eyes lit to new hope as the door swung shut behind a messy shock of emerald to leave Dick alone, only for those blue doe eyes to fall, dead as Dick’s muted gasp of horror when Dick’s mind finally heard that teasing counter in final nail of coffin-

He stumbled forward a step, numbly registering the tile giving way under his foot,  _pressure plate_.

Jason blinked, shaking himself out from the vision, the words  _it’s a trap_  still stuck on his tongue and suddenly there were arms cradled above his head, and a Talon loomed over him, costume bathed to ooze, five razor-edge playing cards sunken through the man’s thickly bleeding back. 

“Are, you, okay?” Rasped tones asked him stiltedly and he stared up at the figure towered above, dumbfounded, the question of  _why?_ shocked silent on his lips.

Talon stared back at him, eyes blown full to surprise; as if even the killer hadn’t known what the hell he’d been thinking when he saved Jason’s life.

“Yeah, I uh, think so. C’mon bud,” Jason peeled away from the shield of body, slapping a jet-wrap shoulder lightly. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Just don’t think about it before you start developing some kind of weird attachment to the guy.  Or worse, start feeling anything like  _gratitude_.

He slipped into the familiar mask of false bravado, pretending his mind wasn’t reeling in chaotic civil war as it tried to decide exactly what the hell he should be feeling. He called cheerily back over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor, fingers tightly wrapped to gun trigger. “City won’t save itself, you know.” 

He almost hoped the assassin didn’t get blown up by another one of Mistah J’s nasty booby traps. Almost.         

 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!” Jason yelled, angrily stalking over to the cartoonish alarm clock strapped to cylinders in a hack job of blue red wires. He snarled, snatching up the paper slip from the clock face, fingers shredding the sloped  _BANG_  into thin tatters, the fragments falling gently to his feet as heels violently speared the ground in their stride out the office room, storming past the door, the green and purple graffiti of  _Better Luck Next Time_ scrawled haphazardly over the wall seeming to laugh at him as he left.

 “Found the bomb, bats. Thing’s a dud. Joker pulled one over on everyone.”

He opened the comm line, snarling bluntly into it as he thundered past a confused Talon.

 ...

He woke suddenly in the middle of the night, a flash of passing car throwing light over the killer stood at the end of his bed. Jason froze, the world standing still as he locked gaze with the man. The eyes opposite started guiltily, unusually the first to break away as they ashamedly toed floorboards. Talon was halted, more statue than flesh in that moment. Then amber wrenched back to his own, the killer leaning forward, poised as if about to speak. Jason was so sure that hidden mouth was about to open in some address, but instead he blinked and in that moment the visage was gone, so suddenly he was unsure the ghost had even been there in the first place.

He wrenched hands over his eyes, groaning in disbelief as he lay back, only to turn immediately on his side.

He laughed bitterly to himself, angrily telling his mind that there was no way the presence of the assassin after his head would ever give him any sort of reassurance, let alone make him feel safe. That would be dumb. No, that would be madness, and he was perfectly content to leave the insanity to the padded walls and obnoxiously dressed clowns.


	11. Ghosts We Were Meant to Be

Why.

Why had it paused? Why had it talked? Why had it _helped_?

Why was it here?

Talon stared at the scene in front of it. Hood looked different curled to his covers. Oddly fragile. Vulnerable. Human. It would be all too simple to deliver the kill. Eyes flown open, realisation dawning, too late. A struggle for a brief five seconds. A hand pushed, fingers knitted to the span of twitching throat. The flesh would pulse and shudder up down in jerks. The lips would purple. The gurgles would choke and silence. The Hood would not rise.

Talon’s stomach flipped unhappily. It took a step. Padded. Silent. Deadly. The knife speared through its gut by some unseen assailant twisted. It did not deliver the kill.

It told itself it would be too easy. Would fall flat to their first and second confrontation. But part of Talon couldn’t lie. It grieved the thought of Hood’s life force soaked through to the covers.

Part of Talon _disobeyed_ the Court.

Talon stared in growing horror as the epiphany unfurled.

The man leapt awake, bolted upright and froze, shocked still in rapt terror like a justborn fawn spotted predator.

Their eyes met in a blaze of fuddled amber and wrecked emerald. Talon’s jaw flinched, lips cracked open to sudden inspiration.

_J-_

Its jaw snapped shut. Hood started forward just as Talon fled, disappearing into the night like the ghost it was meant to be.

 _Where am I?_ the frightened little boy cried, wet fat tears racing down gaunt hollowed cheek as teeth worked over worn down lips, head limply raised off the metal lash collar choking bony neck.

 **Where you belong.** The shade loomed above answered tonelessly.

 _Who am I?_ the boy whispered, voice barely a croak as they weakly lifted their face up from gazing at the floor, shivering and staring up at the wraith, hoping to find some sign of humanity but instead all that stared back was an impassive glare and white space, impossibly blank slate wiped clean of anything and everything and shaped to the strangest image of an owl’s face.

The youth trembled, mouth falling open in a silent scream as the hooded form lurched forward and captured their cheek in bloodied talons, gripping the skin in an iron hold.

**What you were meant to be.**

**…**

Talon hefted the skylight plate out of place, sparing some thought to the pelt of hail softly tickling its arms as it dropped its body out of the cold Gotham night and into the less cold of musky floorboard and badly painted tin walls, finding little warmth in the unheated confines of its chosen hidey hole of nameless abandoned warehouse.

It collected its limbs back into a stand, slipping silently through the dark widened expanse and into narrowly scooped out hallway furnished to the bare minimum of out of use low hung lamps and the occasional inconsequential glass framed picture of some random something or other.

It crept through the doorway of what must be the director’s office, a low whine rumbling its throat as it spotted a dusty heater hidden at the room’s back and trembled forward, digits sweeping to twiddle gentle cranks at dials, a coo of excitement rumbling as it found the device still working, a ragged purr pulling a watery smile from its lips as low heat faded through the leather to creep warmth into its flesh.

It collapsed into a pile, curling its body into the contraption like a kitten before the fireplace, snuggling its back into a comfortable enough position, while keeping its eyes trained hawkishly on the door frame, muscles taut, readied for the first signs of a fight.

_kicD struggled as the greenery dangling him above the warehouse floor dipped into a slow bow, plunging him agonisingly slowly into the redhead’s reach, but apparently whatever fertiliser Ivy had used to grow her little monster had been extra strong, emphasis on the strong, because the vines w_uld not budge._

_He blanched, internally screaming for a ecurB to come crashing through the glass at the last minute._

_Someone did come crashing through at the last minute, but it wasn’t ruBce._

_“yaJ!” he happily cheered. “Heya big bro, I’d wave but,” a giggle tore apart the desert that was his throat. “I’m kinda tied up now.” The giggle climbed to a full on manic cackle at the joke.  The kind that would make certain white-faced, red mouthed –er’s proud._

_nosaJ cursed, a violent kick taking his frustrations out on whatever he’d been unlucky enough to land on. “Fuck idiot, wanna yell that a bit louder? I’m not sure all of Arkham heard you.”_

_“yaaaaaaJ. yaJbird.” He smashed his mouth into a pout as he rolled the name off his tongue, swilling the sound playfully to the sides of his mouth. “Didcha come to join the party? There’s this lady ayJ. She’s real pruttty. Nice too. She w_s right here-” His brow scrunched, furrowed arches twisting his expression to a confused frown at the slip of orange gripped under beneath nosaJ’s heel. “Why’s she on the floor aJy? Is she a mean lady?”_

_“Real mean, kicDie." Worried tones turned accusing as the man raised his hands to his hips. "Do I even want to know why the fuck you’re here?”_

_“I tripped.” He chirped helpfully._

_aJosn slapped the front of his helmet in a why the hell hadn’t I realised motion. “Of course Dcik Gnrsaoy tripped and fell into the giant vegetable, how silly of me to even ask.” Biker jacket padded out shoulders slumped down to an exaggerated sigh. “Come on dumbass, let’s get blunder boy wonder down.”_

_“Yeah uh, about that.” Dkic trailed off, cheeks flushing to a firetruck as he offered his saviour a sheepish grin. “Little help?”_

_saJon growled, muttering what sounded like “I just gotta do everything around here, don’t I?” beneath his breath as he stalked forward. Dikc’s breath hiked, catching in his burnt out throat as he panicked, frantically screaming “Option B, Option B” when saoJn reached into a pocket, drawing out the curved shape of a batarang, the hero’s heart thumping W_lly W_st speeds in his chest as the youth hefted the ‘rang above a shoulder and threw._

_He yelped as the plant holding him shrieked and let go, he was falling, the ground rushing up far too quickly to possibly be good for him and oh god he was going to hit it and be nothing but bat jam, Bruec was going to kill him, bring him back to life then kill him all over again and then kill soJan –_

_He nervously unclenched his eyes, risking one lid as he realised that praise every deity he was still alive, his body very much unsplattered in its princess carry, sat in a chair of Janso's muscled arm and pressed deep against nasJo’s chest._

_“Oh my sweet hero,” he cooed, curling his hands around Jason’s neck and stretching his head up to plant a soppy kiss into the helmet cheek._

_“Yuck," Beneath the helmet Dcik was sure the boy was pulling a face, like a child forced to eat its vegetables. "Save it for the babes, kay asshole?”_

_He ignored saonJ’s complaints, nuzzling his body further into the warmth, peppering the visor with sweet little kittenish kisses. “Mmm, love ya little bro.”_

_He whined as Jsoan’s free hand batted his face away, “Yeah yeah, I hate you too you little shithead.”  The man shrugged his body further out of reach, grumbling in raspy sour tones. “I’ll cuff Ivy, she’s out cold but all B’s bitches are always damn good at running. I’ve already alerted the comish and something tells me you’re not going to want to be seen tonight. Think you can walk?”_

_He ignored that too, moaning and pressing his face forward in search of the elusive heater. “Mhmm.”_

_Jsaon grunted a gravelly sigh.“Uh idiot, that’s your cue to get the fuck out my arms.”_

_Dcki froze where he was, dignifiedly blushing a becoming shade of beetroot. “Oh.”_

_“Not even a language? You’re losing your touch, Gyaorsn.” SaonJ scorned, the words cutting scathingly deep before his tone softened. “Jeez, you’re completely out of it, huh?”_

_He didn’t answer, instead giving a happy chirp as his nose pressed into the crook of collared neck. “Heya Jya. You’re hot,” he slurred in a thickened babble. He screeched as the fingers stretch_ng over his ass suddenly dropped away and he tumbled out of the grip, hitting the ground with a pained wince. He growled, rubbing over his butt vehemently as he picked himself up to a poorly balanced stand, swaying gently in the evening breeze, before leaning an arm off the top of nasoJ’s head, the vigilante stooped over Ivy's unconscious form, snapping a pair of shiny hoops over the wrists pulled behind her back._

_“And I’m hot.” He continued, acting nonplussed as he brushed a speck of dust from the suit's shoulder. “Not in the arrogant way. Like I’m really really hot.” His fingers weakly scrabbled at the suit’s sides, pulling at the Kevlar as if hoping to rip the fabric off._

_“We should fuck.” The boy announced decidedly, tone serious. He st_mbled, tripping over one foot in a move totally lacking all of the acrobat’s normal grace._

_“Oh shit, not the sex pollen again?” Jasno swore as he dragged the doped up vigilante further into his side. “I swear she uses that so much it should be listed as a fucking fetish.” He clucked his tongue, quickly pulling the gloves away from their exploration of the suit’s neck, clenching the hand firmly in his own before the mind addled idiot electrocuted himself on his own defences._

_“Mmm, feels nice.” Dikc purred breathily. Eyes blinked sluggishly out of time, pupils nearly entirely devoured by darkened lust._

_“Come on big boy,” Jaosn patted his back soothingly, leading a limping Dcki ba_k to his waiting motorbike. “Let’s get you home before Daddy Bats has a hernia.”_

Talon hissed a pained wince, stretches of lashes shuttering images on and off as consciousness swam reality slowly back to a blurry focus. The bulk of its body pressed further into embrace of heater as a padded arm stretched back, curious fingers stutteringly running ginger strips over the gashed fabric spanning the shoulder blades, the ridges shivering despite the near volcanic temperatures they were slammed against. Straight set lines of mouth downturned to discomfort, the flesh biting ice cold even through the thickened leather hugging each digit. The corner of chapped lip pulled into a muted snarl as confusion paved new life to the dulled expression.

Red Hood should have died tonight. The vigilante should have fallen foul to Joker’s riggings, some cards off a deck, a problem off the streets and little to no effort on the killer’s part; by all means Talon should have watched the exchange between boy and ghost with nothing short of detached viewership, like the audience bearing witness to a death on the stage. Then walked away into the night, only sparing thought to silently congratulate the clown on job well done.

What should not have happened was Talon pulling the mark out of danger’s way, worse, sacrificing self-comfort and _shielding_ him. Hood should have died tonight, Talon should have allowed it. So why hadn’t he? Some part of him cried Hood’s end had to come at the end of _his_ blade, that another’s involvement would spoil the kill. Another part whispered it was something much deeper than simple pettiness. The same thing that drew some line between it and the mark, that pulled him closer to the man as if he were some glowing forest fire and Talon the moth helplessly tugged towards the brilliance of flame.

Talon threw his body off the wall, hugging the tiles of ripped fabric closer to his form. He had to know why the tool still felt, what was causing him, even after the punishments shackling him to obedience, to rebel against his makers. He had to _know_ ; not knowing was driving him mad. Madder.

The breath – not breath he was dead he didn’t need breath he was dead – caught at the back of his throat, painting sticky bile to the backs of his teeth as he stumbled quavering steps through the hall, namesake wrenching despairingly over his scalp. He had to know. Had to talk to the man and found out why he couldn’t kill him. He had to see Ja- Hood again. Even if flying closer to the vigilante meant his own wings burned off in the process.


	12. Broken Birds

Talk. Just talk, the assassin had assured in that funny accent of broken not quite English he had, those amber eyes glittering soullessly unblinking as they drove into his own grassy pair, a shred of night detaching from the shadow, the hand clasping over his squirming mouth paying no attention to the teeth ferociously needling away at the thick wad of leather glove, drawing off only when he had finally quietened and lain still.

Talk. Just talk, bird boy had promised, over and over like they were his last words, like they were Batman save the universe words, repeating them like the most important mantra in the world that he needed Jason to understand, and Jason had listened - he wasn’t exactly going to argue with the guy - curtly nodded his agreement when allowed, the hung silence shattered to the slightest rustle of fabric as the killer moved, near totally soundlessly, vanishing away from the side of the bed like some bad dream gone when your eyes opened, leaving the window slammed, the ledge drawn wide open in invitation.

Jason’s eyes had bugged, drawing first to the window, then to the Desert Eagle sheltered beneath a moth-eaten dog blanket bundled in the lap of desk chair then back to the window again. He stared, partly in disbelief, feeling anything but sane as he hauled his weary body out the bed, clumsily stumbling steps across the hall, rooting through the graveyard of fridge shelf before tottering his way back to the room, rescuing the gun and pausing, turning back before grabbing the ratty blanket too, which he tied over his bare chest like a toga, and slowly hauling himself through the window and after the kook.

Which was how he’d gotten here, dressed as a roman emperor just discovered the wonders of denim jeans, munching off a half-eaten Babybel, wordlessly swinging his legs over the stone like a carefree bratty kid without any of the worries to his name, staring at the romantic bleak scape of Gotham city skyline - Wayne Tower standing, a massive middle finger up, towering, as its name suggested, above the rest of scrapers, fingertips away from the deranged mental asylum escapee who had taken his business name a little too seriously and was perched off the wall, hawkish gaze directed to the street below, bulk crouched over like some horrific gargoyle statue that wouldn’t have been out of place in the fortifications of Notre Dame.

 _“So,”_  Dick Grayson whispered cheerily in his ear. Jason could almost imagine the vigilante there with the pair - the hero walking the ledge like a tightrope, on his hands, ebony strands falling over his face set in a sloppy grin.  _“Do you talk first or me?”_

“This is the third time you’ve broken in.” Talon’s shoulders twitched, like he were trying to contain a volley of giggles, and Jason swallowed, slowly, suddenly sure the known three were something much bigger. “Do I need to invest in a guard dog or something?”

“You could try,” Amber eyes gleamed brighter, suddenly hungry. “It would be dead by the end of the first night.”

“Wow, cheery. You’re a dick, you know that right?” Jason griped. Beside him, Talon exploded in a happy trill. “Asshole.” Jason muttered through a bite of cheap plastic cheese.

“What the fu-“ he yelped as suddenly the perch was empty – Talon gone – and hands were snaring over his wrist, stretching his arm out and roving up the skin to pick over the large angry purple welts blossomed through his tan.

“Your skin does not heal.” The killer mumbled, confused.

“Well sorry.” Jason’s sniped waspishly. “We can’t all be unkillable zombiefied freaks you know?”

“And it is warm.” Talon showed no sign of listening as he spoke, breathlessly awed, the owl mask cocking further to the side as he blanked Jason and continued to prod, strangely gentle, at the flesh. It was almost calming, if you forgot that the man could just as easily snap the limb like a twig right there and then if he decided. Jason paled, deciding very quickly that that was one trip down a rabbit hole he was not falling down.

His eyebrows bunched, voice dripping lead heavy to hardened bitterness, snaking sarcastically. “Whoop dee fucking who gives a shit? So is everyone’s. Mine is, and Robin’s, and Batman’s and-“

“Not mine.” Talon interrupted, murmuring sadly, speaking as if he were at his own funeral. “Mine is…cold.”

“Sure it is, you’re alive, aren’t you?” Jason snapped, with some difficulty, angrily wrenching his arm away from the killer and nursing it to his chest.

“No, not alive. Breathing, but dead.” Talon whispered cryptically. He’d inched off one of the gloves before Jason could ask for an explanation, holding the leather cast off in the other as he showed the hand, lifting it up to hold still in the soft bask of streetlight. The skin beneath was china pale, navy veins popping skeletal claws of blue to the ghostly sheen. It was greyer than a corpse’s, the kind of white sheen of rigor mortis. Definitely not alive.

“Holy crap, fuck, you’re dead.” Jason whimpered, dropping the breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. “Like, dead, dead.”

Talon harrumphed flatly, hurriedly yanking the glove back over digits. “Yes, I suppose I am this dead dead.”

“Was that the Court?” Jason demanded, struck by how protective he suddenly felt of his killer. Lima syndrome? Oh that couldn’t be good. “What did they do to you?”

“They killed me.” Talon whispered, hanging his head miserably. “And then they brought me back.”

“Gee I’m-“ Jason trailed off, stunned that he’d been about to apologise to the guy who less than five minutes into most of their meetings would be excitedly raving off about how it good it would be killing him.

Fuck it. He’d never been the lay low and follow common sense kind of guy guy. You didn’t need to look any further than exploding warehouses and trusting the Joker to see that. Genius of the fucking century right there folks. He stuttered, swallowing down the accompanying nausea. “I’m sorry, I know how that feels.”

Talon laughed, the type of sound that held a finger up and said fuck it to the world. It left Jason wondering if, in another universe – one where the guy wasn’t coo coo for cocoa puffs and dead set on taking his head for their crony overlords, they’d have been friends. “You are a curious little bird. Not many would freely apologise to their murderer.”

“Yeah, about that. For all the talk, I’m still here. You seem about as keen on all this as me.” Jason pointed.

“I am the Court’s.” Talon wheezed. “Their demands are my purpose. My life is theirs to serve.”

Jason snorted. “What life? Sounds like they’re just using you as their tool.”

“Talon is their tool to use.” The killer replied robotically.

 “You’re not a tool, Talon. Don’t let them use you like one.” Jason trailed off, losing his focus to the Gotham nightline. Mugging going on down South Street? Just point him the way. Oversized crocodile half man mutant in desperate need of a good bullet through the eye? He was your guy. Developing attachment to the charity case trained to kill him? Not so much his area of expertise.  He hated to even think about it, but damn if he couldn’t use the help. He grunted, finally relenting.

 “Look, the Cave has a shit ton of stuff, defences that can hide you, help get your life back. Maybe B can-“

“ ** _No_**.” Talon hissed. “No Cave. No Batman.”

“Okay, no Batman.” Jason agreed. “Look, you’re young.” He paused, suddenly attentive of the curves sleek and pretty, the sloping back and chiselled jaw of his companion. “You’re young right?”

“I do not know. I can- not remember.” Talon admitted sadly. Jason thought he saw a foot shift absently, as if the killer were about to start sullenly kicking the stone in front of him.

Taking amnesiacs off the streets to turn them into their faithful little killers? Oh you could bet Red Hood was really going to beat this Court’s ass.

“Well you sound young.” Jason continued, finishing his Babybel and thrusting the wrapper into his jean pocket. He raked the hand through his hair, disrupting the tangles out of and back into, place. “There’s this team, my kid brat brother’s on it, maybe they can-“

“Can what? Offer me a place?” it was Talon’s turn to snort. “Capes will not accept a killer to their ranks. I have killed, little wing. Many times.”

“So have I!” Jason protested sharply. “And look at me!”

He almost lost it completely when Talon turned his face, the killer blinking owlishly. “A high level alcoholic slowly dying from lung cancer, cut off from society and shunned by your own family?”

He grabbed at his breast, warping a grimace and feigning a shocked gasp. “Okay, harsh. And true, but ouch, if that doesn’t sting like a bitch.”

Jason’s heart leapt, a startled rabbit suffering an aneurysm, as Talon leaned, uncomfortably close. Eyes swept over him analytically.

“I have killed all. Men. Women. Mothers in front of daughters and fathers in front of sons. But you, why can’t I kill you…” Talon tipped his head to the left, as if hoping to find the answer in better lighting. “Why can’t I kill you?” The assassin repeated, voice louder, cried in frustration.

“You think I know?! Because I don’t!” Jason’s voice rose, peaking and cracking, hysterical, as shortened fuse dwindled and spent, weeks of worry, of new emotion that were all so confusing and dumb and he just wanted to go away finally crumbling defences and bubbling to the surface. “I wish I could explain your weird creepy obsession with me but I can’t, Talon, okay? I’m as bright on whatever the fuck’s going on inside that cuckoo nut of yours as you are!”

He broke for breath, angrily choking spits of gasps. His shoulders trembled and slumped.

“Sorry I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s been a rough week. You know that cliché of having something precious but not realising how much it means to you until its gone?" 

Not just gone. Jason swallowed thickly. Missing, presumed dead.

“ _Aw Jaaaaay, you do like me.”_ Not Dick Grayson grinned, pushing off his hands and landing – perfectly – on the edge, now the right way up, to run and throw both arms around Jason’ neck, enveloping him in a half hug half rugby tackle.

Talon paused, gaze suddenly lost before a flash of understanding passed. The killer teetered, muscles of neck flexing beneath the mask, again as if about to say something, only to be interrupted by the wail of a shop alarm. Gotham, the city where crime never sleeps.  

“That’s my cue.” Jason grinned, standing. “This was nice, weird, but nice.” He clapped the killer on the back, wondering if he’d finally gone cuckoo bananas. The funny thing was, he meant it too.

“I hope you find your missing something.” Talon wished, strangled voice sounding strangely genuine.

”Me too bud, me too. You’re a good guy, T. Don’t let the Court change that.”

_Thank you_

Talon stopped, the words frozen on its tongue.

“Than..” It rasped. But Hood was already gone.

Talon gave something of a grimace, feelings were new, feelings were bad, feelings were punished, staring at the roof where the boy had been. Where the man still hid. “It is rude to spy.” He whispered brokenly.

A smile dripped off Slade’s lips as he abandoned his post, stepping from darkness into the light. He had come expecting to find Nightwing. But this? This was so much better.

“You know when I first heard I didn’t believe it.” Arrogant tones drawled obnoxious sugar as the bulk of black orange detached from their shadows. “Nightwing snatched out of his own home and not even Superman can find him.”

Talon’s gut punched unhappily at the names, its head suddenly strangely empty, like a jigsaw with its most important pieces missing. It quaked, caught between whether to run or attack.

The elder seemed to sense Talon’s discomfort, even enjoy it, the intruder walking forward closer in slow deliberate steps before continuing. “And then Red Hood and a little Robin come to me, yowling pathetically over a missing bird.” They stopped barely a metre away, at a glance stood casually without a care, at another poised, powerful muscles coiled tight, hungrily leaned ready for the adrenaline of battle. “The Bat’s filling up hospitals wards and tearing half of Gotham apart to find his darling original. And yet here you are, hunting your very replacement. Whatever would dear Bruce say if he saw his sons now?”

_ruceB_

_Bruce._

_Wayne. Bruce Wayne._

_“We don’t kill kicD.”_

_“But WhY BruCe TheY’re cRiMinaLS?”_

“Call me curious but I had to know.” The tone continued, now turned mocking at the sound of a low chuckle. “And what can I say but wow kid,” hands swept the air, greedily encompassing the world, before the opened palms pushed to an accusing jabbed finger.  “They really did a number on you.”

Talon stared distrustfully at the man who had been trailing it since it first left the warehouse. He did not know this odd little man whose swagger seemed to think the very world belonged to, perhaps he had – once, maybe in a dream, for every time its eyes locked to that strange crystal blue it felt an odd thrum of resonance pound its head, and its mouth rasped open, as if some  _thing_  were trying to force its way out; the same low buzz around the Hood, only where Hood called  _protect, care, keep safe_ , this spiked to terror, fear,  **anger,**  urging to run as far or strike as hard as possible, like being around this man was a very, very bad idea.

“Do I…know you?” It ventured brokenly.

The man tipped his head back in roared laughter. Talon winced, the sound broken glass stuffed in its ears. The head snapped back to its place, one crystal blue gem set against black domino burning hungrily to meet Talon’s gaze. “Yes you do, you and I are the best of friends.”

Talon cocked its head to the side, raising one hand to scratch nervously at the knives sheathed to its front. It shifted in its place, uneasy. “Somehow…I do not believe that.”

The male shrugged, though he didn’t seem particularly bothered to be called out. “Worth a shot. I go by many names – most know me as Deathstroke, but you may address me as Sir or Master. So kid, you going to come with me the easy way or the hard way? It doesn’t really matter but I’m quite partial to the hard way myself.”

Talon understood. He wanted Talon. Wanted to take Talon away from the Court. Talon shivered. No it did not like this man. “Talon does not wish to accompany you.”

“Enough of the games.” The man scoffed. “You really think you can crawl back to your family and be accepted? They already come to accuse you. You’re a killer now. A bloodied murderer. Just like little black sheep brother dearest. Except I dare say you even enjoy it. They’ll never take you back, not now, you’re too tainted.”

“Do not speak as if you know me, Hood will-”

“Do you think Hood will still hold little rooftop tea parties when he finds out about the children you murdered?” Talon stopped. Its gut punched, suddenly dropped 10,000 feet. The man – Deathstroke – smirked, the predator sensing victory. “I am the only one left who will accept you. We are the same, Richard. Soon you will see that.”

_Richard._

_Richard is such a stuffy name, you can c a    l     l    m    e    D   I   .    .   ._

Talon didn’t like the name. It fell flat, dead as the bodies Talon left. It sounded the way the Owls did when they summoned Talon before an especially nasty punishment. The kind that wouldn’t heal for three days.

“I think you should leave.” The words came out a growl, gutted and low. Dangerous.

“Think?” the voice quirked back instantly, sharp as a shot bullet. “Do the Court know their tool still has the will to think?”

“Leave.” Talon now snarled, snatching a dagger from his belt and throwing it, the blade embedding into the wall an inch above the masked man’s head, who stared, staying where they were, nonplussed.

“I am not going anywhere.” Smooth tones drawled calmly, dismissing the knife just barely missed driven through their skull. “Not without what I came here for.”

“Talon does not wish to accompany you.” It repeated again, more sure this time.

The man who called himself Deathstroke snickered ominously. “You act as if you have a choice.”

Talon charged, leaping forward as the first bullet burrowed into the space above its collarbone.  _Irrelevant._ The second landed square to its sternum.  _Pointless_. The third to its side.  _Useless._ It swept a knife out, nicking the costumed shoulder, but not the heart, darting out of the way of the kick aimed to the gash pumping blood out of its side. It felt for the bullet, finding instead a broken glass sphere and pool of chemical.

Its vision swam, suddenly spotty. Its legs wavered, suddenly unsteady.

 _Drugged_. Outrage bubbled.  _He had drugged Talon._

“Bas…t….ard…” The insult slipped out of his lips, feeling strangely,  _right_. It groped for the other two balls, plucking each out with a silent huff, swaying slightly as the world twisted out of then back to focus. A watery grin carved its lips wide as it stood, now perfectly straight. “That….all you…got?”

“So, the rumours of the man who does not feel are true, I am impressed.” The elder sniped sarcastically, throwing the two smoking Berettas to the side, casual as could be. “In that case I can afford to cut loose.” The sentence descended to a grunt as the broadsword landed, snatched off the expansive back and in the same moment tearing rubble off the stone’s edge.

The man roared, bellowing as Talon shakily pushed its body out of the roll, crouching up to catch his wrist, stop the sword and twist, securing grip and wrenching, the limb, popping obediently out of place. It dropped its hold, ducking out of the way of the second swipe, now slow and clumsy; the sword still clutched, but now loosely, the twig hanging, torn at an angle.

It jumped, spinning its body, sleek and lithe, slipping through air like a seal nosing through the water. It added a flip. Not for some defensive tact, but because it wanted to. Wanted to show off, to, for some reason prove itself  _better._ It knew its mistake as the hand shot, grabbing its ankle, and pulling down, clipping its wings and tearing it from the sky.

Talon fell, landing soundlessly on the stone, grounded. A broken bird.

Deathstroke was on him before he could recover, a bent leg planting on his stomach, a hand hurriedly pinning his arms up above his head. “You’re mine, Richard.” Cold tones crowed. “You would do better to remember that.”

The mask leaned down, a greasy leer staining the one orb as it pushed closer, inches from Talon’s own as fingers worked, latching at the edges of owl mask and beginning to pull.

The body jerked back, howling in surprise as Talon rammed its head forward, slamming into the man’s face with a satisfying, curdling crunch. It used the momentum and surprise, slipping out from the hold and launching itself into a tackle, slithering off the ground and snaking its body round like an anaconda wrapping its prey while the elder was still dazed, distracted.

It worked quickly, digging ankles into hips and gripping, the weight toppling their pair, slamming the elder into the ground only for them to recover, too quickly to be human, one moment Talon was on top the man below, the next Talon below the man above. They rolled, elegant dance reduced to chaotic mess as they tumbled over each other wildly, the top swiping knives in and out, lightning fast, into the lower’s shoulder blades, determinedly clinging on even as they attempted to buck their enemy off, the beneath squirming until they finally flipped position and tore their knives through the former conqueror’s chest.  

Talon breathed, heavily panting, organ pumping and last dregs of cold, unfeeling adrenaline draining away to sharp gulped gasps of effort as it leaned above the loser, catching the worn fist aimed at its face with ease and picking the fingers out, crunching each in turn before dropping the useless digits to the man’s side, pressing metal into the collar.    

“Sooner or later, Richard.” The man hissed, one hand slipping away from the knife handle clutched to his throat for fingers to scrabble over his belt. “You will come running to me. It’s only a matter of time.”

Talon screamed as the flashbang detonated, dropping his hold to clutch over his eyes – burning, burning eyes he couldn’t see he was  _blind Bruce turn the light on I’m scared BRUCE!_

When the specks cleared from its vision, the man was gone, and Talon standing, alone, his words echoing, dully playing over and over through its muggy mind.

Talon laughed brokenly as its consciousness swam away. Time was the one thing he did not have.


	13. Revelation

Jason was woken at the bright and perfectly humane time of 4.30am to the screech of death and the garbled voice of a panicking boy blunder. So just the usual wake up party then.

_“Jason, Jason.”_

“Fuck off Tim.” He turned round, groggily clawing over the snooze and lobbing the contraption out the bed, grimacing slightly as it smashed wall but stubbornly hung onto life and continued to ring.

“ _Jason.”_ Tim babbled frantically, an edge to his voice hard enough to stop Jason from hanging up on the blithering sod. But what Sidekid Mark 3 said next was enough to chill the smouldering fury dead ice in his veins.

“ _I found Carver.”_

“Where?” Jason snapped up to attention, already thrown out of bed as he hurriedly gathered the usual checklist for a day on the town – jeans, helmet, shirt, guns. Lots of guns.

The youth’s voice turned from frenzied to grim. “Gotham Cemetery.”

Jason froze halfway through tying off his shoelace. His eyes boggled, breaths cut to short gasps as his chest tightened, air rushing in his ears threatening to pull him under. Then he rushed out the door, Tim’s voice, still unanswered, bleating worriedly after him.

…

Tim’s words floated back, buzzing round his brain annoyingly as he dropped down the iron gates, shaking his head as if to dislodge the slight flare in his ankles on the impact. Cemetery. Dick couldn’t be dead. He refused to believe it. Not Dick Grayson. Not Nightwing. Not The Robin. The youth was notoriously hard to snuff out. Jason should know – he’d seen Dick’s scars. Even given the hero a few himself. Split lips, panda eyes, just little things to remember him by on those cold, Bludhaven Winter nights. The boy broke bones on a regular basis, bruised ribs every second Thursday, collected concussions like they were some cheap knock-off cereal toy to sell years later for half a mil on Ebay. But he always bounced straight back. Hell, he’d even kept fighting that time when Jason may have broken his leg pushing him out a building. But that was an accident. He hadn’t meant to slam him out that window. It just sorta happened.

Dick got hurt, but he never _died_. That was Jason’s thing. And if he was, well the family would just have to borrow Ras’s personal private swimming pool, wouldn’t they? Only two Lazarus dips in all their misadventures was close to a miracle; Jason didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the times he’d almost died – and then that one time he had – and he was sure Dickie would probably take the green gunk much better than he ever had – probably wouldn’t even jump out any windows or take up his own personal vendetta against his mentor for not killing the guy who finally got that one lucky shot of the rogue gallery’s wet dreams. Would be back on the streets, a self-respecting, upstanding, fully law-abiding member of the cape community by the next week.

Jason knew he looked suspicious enough. Looked suspicious enough to attract the wrong kind of attention – the costume party shop cowl and monotone _I am the night_ kind of hawkish stare – as he hastily skirted the well-worn path, feet half tripping over themselves in their stumbled urgency, the darkened hoodie pulled down low to cover his face and the shovel clutched delicately in one hand thrown over his shoulder abandoning all pretence of anything close to an innocent visit to change the water and swap poor Granny Todd’s flowers. But if Carver was here then Jason was going to do this properly. Digging six layers of ground up because in his experience he knew the dead weren’t always so dead and coffins weren’t always filled with the chump’s corpse body.

By the time he found the right stone Jason’s patience was worn so short it could be measured on a finger. Whoever had chosen the spot had damn well done their best to make it as hard to find as humanly possible, not just stashing it at the back but in the middle of a huddle of crumbling old lumps of headstone that no one would ever look twice towards.

It was as average as average went, just a stone slab, no fancy shape or artsy style. The only decoration to it was a thickened line of dust, not even a bunch of flowers sat at its foot. The inscription was plain and simple. Just a name and date. Alton Carver. 1953-1975. Jason huffed a sigh, dropping the shovel off his shoulder, wiped the beginning spirals of sweat off his brow, flexed his muscles alive and began to dig.

Ten minutes later and he was staring impassively at a mountain of dirt and a wooden box of death. Maybe at one point the idea of breaking into a graveyard to dig up a dead guy would have left him feeling guilty, or well, anything, but honestly he’d seen so much more shit in his life that he was past the point of ever caring. It was disrespectful, of course. And definitely a little bit disgusting – corpses _smelled_. Little wormies crept in and ate little chunks of eyeballs and organs. But yeah so what? He sucked in deep breath, slipping the spade end down and smashing it into the locks, again and again until they finally gave.

He released the breath he’d been holding, staring in disbelief at the scene in front. Empty. The coffin was empty. No sign of Carver or any chump taken his place.

“Tim, there’s no body.” He spoke plainly into the comm nestled against his right ear, the boy on the other end’s reacting short whimper of relief near instantaneous.

Tim swallowed, his words tight. “ _Whoever did this, you think they did to Dick what they did with Carver?”_

Jason toed the lid clumsily with his left foot, aiming a kick at its middle. “Quietly disappear him so people think he's dead and don’t go looking? Yeah, I do.” Jason paused, tripping over the words and suddenly battling for breath. He recognised the signs. Panic attack. “How’d he die, Tim?” He managed to struggle out around the tightness now locked around his throat, wheezing.

 “ _Circus accident.”_ Tim replied, the unspoken worry there, but hidden. Still, it was enough to force Jason’s breaths to even. Like hell he was getting pity from his replacement. _“There was a fire in one of the caravans. Carver got unlucky, the wrong place, wrong time. Didn’t make it out. He was declared deceased on the scene and buried in Gotham Cemetery two weeks after.”_

“Carver was in the circus?” Jason’s voice rose high, breath hitching, climbing with a clip of brow and twist of his mouth. His brain was already working, responding to the new information, connecting dots to circuses and black little notebooks with their own missing peoples list.

“ _Yeah, he was the high wires star for Haly’s in the 1970s_. _Picked up off Gotham’s streets as a kid,_   _made it big on his talent,_   _real sweet story. Shame the end soured._ ”

“Haly’s?” Jason echoed, the word harshly gritted out as clefts of teeth worked against his bottom lip. “Was he now?” Fingers tightened, clenching in and out of fists, balling and un-balling as they imagined slamming contact with another’s face. Jason’s eyes flashed violence, his voice spiking a tad higher than usual. “Don’t wait up Tim. Red Hood’s gonna be out late tonight.”

…

It was the last night Haly’s was in town. Oddly enough they’d only stayed for a week. Gotham was one of the circus’s best hits, afterall, no citizen needed a pickmeup better and was prepared to pay through the roof to get it than a Gothamite. Jason had already thought it strange back when he’d first visited, but now it made sense. They were running, scared and guilty, worried that links would be made between a boy disappeared and a Bat involved. From Carver’s ‘death’ and disappearance it was clear Haly’s had been hiding something dark and sinister for a long time, long before Dick had even been born, and Jason was going to find out what.

“Talk.” Red Hood snarled, skipping straight to the good bit, dropping off the caravan roof in a blaze of avenging fury and crushing Raymond’s face into the vehicle’s shell, the acrobat giving a quiet whimper as the _Eagle_ slammed just above his ear pressed tighter into his skull. The arm twisted behind the man’s back weakly clawed for the fingers tightly pinning it.

Raymond gave a sharp squeal. "I got no idea, who are you, what do you want?" 

Jason pushed his face closer into the other man's personal space, holding him down stronger. "Really? Playing innocent Raymond? Cuz there's an open grave and an empty coffin that says this circus know more than its letting on. Where is Dick Grayson? Same place you took Alton Carver?"

“We had to, okay,” Raymond half garbled, pathetically giving up any picture of innocence at the first hint of threat. “If we didn't give him up they were going to kill us, they were gonna shoot Raya, they were gonna shoot _me_.”

Jason’s blood ran cold, blocks of ice heavy in his veins. His grip turned that little bit tighter, the bone under his fingers nearly giving way entirely to his now boiling rage. “So you sold Dick Grayson out to save your own slimy skin?”

“I didn’t have a death wish!” Raymond cried, screaming as his wrist gurgled and snapped. “They said they’d cover it all up! That no one would ever find out we helped! Oh god oh god please don’t kill me-”

“Who’s they?” Jason roared above the pitiful moans. Raymond balked as his other hand squeezed, shaking the broken limb.

“I can’t tell you, you gotta understand.” Raymond pleaded through his sobs. “They’d never let me live.”

“And I’m not inclined to either if you don’t talk, so start singing please tweety bird, I’m all ears and one very short fuse.” Jason hissed, making a show of cocking the safety off and tracing his fingers lovingly over the trigger to emphasise his point.

Raymond’s eyes bulged, rolling madly to the sides as they fought to stare at the barrel lined to their side, the coward’s trembles redoubling with a vengeance as he gave a terrified shrill squeak. “I don’t know! The Court, Haly called them the Court. Said he owed them a new batch and some shit about it being Grayson’s destiny, that he was bred for it.”

Raymond threw his head back and howled up to the moon as the other arm popped out of its place. “ **You’re pathetic**.” The sentence was less that and more a bestial growl, Jason surprised he could still speak any understandable English at all at this point, the rage bubbling, desire to just put a bullet through the scum's eyes and end this all for good, Bruce, justice served, no criminal out the revolving Arkham door by next week, yearning to be set free.

Raymond struggled, shrieking like a butchered pig as the gun pressed closer.  His hair fell over his eyes as he trembled, sea froth spitting dribbled leaks over his shaking lips and pupils spinning back and forth in their circles liked a crazed horse gone rogue. “I told you all I know, okay? So just go away, all right?”

“He trusted you.” Jason growled, finally relenting his hold and letting the guy go. Raymond fell, boneless, to the ground, Raya rushing over with a squeak to frantically mother hen, hushing comfort, petting the side of his face and pulling his head to cradle into her lap. Jason felt a shoot of disgust curl his lip at the sight. One homicidal, obsessed hitman for hire with highly questionable morals, a plant lady off her head and on a mission to wipe out all humanity, an exiled space princess whose dictionary was entirely made of frenching and the redhead aiding and abetting in his kidnapping. Dickie really could choose his lovers well.

“He’s not one of us, not anymore. Just another rich kid brat now, and you, you’re insane.” Raymond spat weakly, limply lifting his head off Raya and raising a finger to shakily jab in Jason’s direction accusingly. “The police will catch you and when they do you’ll get locked up in Arkham where you belong.”

 Jason saw red. Not in the metaphorical sense – actual, literal red, and a lot of it. Blood spewing as he slipped the still smoking Eagle back to his belt, a small smile of satisfaction briefly lightening the horrified glaze reflecting his eyes and deadweight that had dropped on his shoulders ever since Raymond had blabbed out _Court_ , Raya’s concern rising into hysterics as the man writhed, bloodied fingers clutching over his knees and wailing curses that would make even drunken sailors blush and look away. Jason was a damn good shot. Raymond may still be alive, but he'd never perform again.

Jason turned away. He didn’t care. Didn’t have time. The cogs in his head were already whirring and clicking puzzle pieces together; little things like a missing vigilante taken by the Court and an assassin trained by said Court to mindlessly kill him _stopping_ and cooking him goddamm dinner instead. Although some part of him still stubbornly protested there was no way, didn’t want to even think about the possibility – last he checked Dickie Grayson didn’t have freaking yellow eyes (No, he had those perfect baby blues that you could just get lost staring into, the depths so insanely, impossibly deep one glance and you were drowning never to find your way out of) and the ability to rise from the freaking dead. And though, like anyone held in a less than a mile radius to Bruce he may have a few screws loose in the head somewhere, he definitely wasn’t some mentally shambled psychopathic amnesiac assassin poster boy for insanity.

Either way, one thing was for sure, the Court of Owls had Dick. Which meant Jason had a lot of new toys to order, an obsessive stalker to properly confront and a super-secret organisation to find and bring to its knees.

And fuck, he hoped everything his instincts were telling him were wrong. 

…

There was a present waiting for him back at the condo he was camping out in, courtesy of one man desperately in need of a bullet through the other eye socket. Pretty blue black kevlar picked out just for him, no card but all wrapped up in strawberry-bow laces of blood, the uniform in rags, one sleeve only hanging on to a thin dribble of fabric, the other torn open down the middle.

Jason walked forward on tottering legs, the world seeming to just _stop_ as he ran his fingers over Nightwing’s costume, the usually clean and smooth black now rusty and sticky to crusted blood.

The large, sloping ‘S’ slashed plainly through the bird in flight blue insignia was as good a middle finger up as any. Slade. Slade had been here. Slade had gotten through his defences – some defences, if the assassin hired to off him could slip through them on a regular basis, then what was stopping the merc after him from doing the same? Nothing, apparently.

Jason gave a cry of rage, wrenching the bloodied fabric off the nails and sprinting to the window still clutching the ragged remains of costume to his chest as he ducked his head out, but the merc was long gone, message delivered and disappeared, leaving Jason to slide brokenly down the sill, clenching the tattered suit in tight fists as he pressed his face into the kevlar and _cried_. Unbelievable tears that rolled in fat dribbles down his cheeks and try as he might refused to climb back in his eyes and disappear, that he was crying, Jason Todd the ball of fury who refused point blank to have anything to do with the Bat past the occasional I scratch my back you don’t drag me to a mental institute, actually crying over Brucie’s best boy soldier.

He was breathing fast and feeling oh so pissed because mooning over his brother-not-brother who best case scenario was still attending brainwashing classes 101, worst case he had already graduated and was now hunting him down like the insane kooked up killer he'd been turned into, like some heartbroken teen angst central meant that he wasn’t doing this just to clear his name and get Bat Brat off his back, it meant that he actually _cared,_ couldn’t lie and pretend that he didn’t anymore, and dangit this was **not** how he wanted to spend his Tuesday evening.

…

_R I c h a r d_

_B r u c e_

_B a t m a n_

_R o b I n_

_R e d H o o d_

Across the city, holed up uneasily in the cramped confines of his low cot, Talon’s eyes flew open, bolting up into a seat, its breaths rolling uneasily, unneeded organs spiking higher as nausea and panic washed over, waves of terror sweeping over his mind and forcing sharpened nails to rise and claw despairingly over _pink_ grey _soft_ slab skin that _cut open and bled, dripping leaks of scarlet tears out of purple insides._

_Faces he didn't know of targets he had never been given, names on his tongue he'd never been told._

_Who was Richard he was Richard but he was Talon Talon didn't have a name Talon didn't need one Talon didn't think Talon_ _was_ n't _a  tool and would_ n't  _let the Court use him as one._

_R I c h a r d_

_B r u c e_

_B a t m a n_

_R o b I n_

_J a s o -_

Richard opened his mouth and **screamed.**


	14. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later than usual but here we are. Updates back to normal schedule Saturday.

_Scrape._ Talon dragged its feet across the rough stone uneasily, its usual ethereal grace lacking in the face of blank stares pinning its form as it passed, each glare sitting all too heavy on its back. It was not often that Sir had summoned it to anywhere other than his private chambers, but then it was not often their Talon failed and left the target still alive a month from the scheduled hit either. 

Failed. There was no question to the statement now. Talon had failed, Hood was still alive and now the Court demanded to know _why_. Some had even begun to suspect its tool as faulty. And Talon was beginning to think them right. For complete loyalty, the thought of confessing it had come to care for the funny thump in Hood’s mortality, that it looked forward to their meetings, came startlingly more alive with each encounter, left it sick, an odd roll in its stomach that didn’t sit quite right. It suppressed a sigh, shuffling its shoulders and moved forward, painfully slow. After all, by the end of the day the Court would be sure to make the man it had grown to feel, cry and niggle odd little itches over, a stranger.

It thought briefly, of running, its eyes skimming rarely off the floor on its toes to the pass over the ceiling. Talon had never quite been perfectly docile in the tunnels, strange little whispers urging not quite rights, fuzzed up even though everything else was so painfully distinct, but those had been little peeps of thoughts. Now it was bombarded by them, each loud and clear and **screaming.** Thoughts to run, to hide, to take Hood’s offer, join a team and start anew. Of not letting them steal the beauty, snatch the ebony hair and emerald eye pair from it as they had for so many others, patches of blank space and fuzzed lines that Talon had been told not to think about when it asked _why_ so hadn’t.

But Talon’s duty was still to the Court, and no matter how strong the strange urge to _flee_ ran, it pushed it down and made a show of ignoring, forcing quick little steps that pit-pattered down the tunnel in time to its noisily thudding organs. The Court were its masters, the patchwork tunnel underground its home. And this strange little thing that called itself Richard, that needled away at Talon’s head, opened its mouth to feed alien phrases off its tongue and screamed _remember_ could never quite argue with that.

 _Perhaps it is not ready_. They whispered behind its back as it led away, fingers curling out of fists to jump over  the patchwork of peeling scarlet christening its front that was slowly sewing back to invisible threads, opened gash already closing back together, almost invisible. _Perhaps it still remembers_. _Perhaps it needs more training._

Colourless bleach grey blanched at that, amber startled wide, Talon balked.  It remembered its training. They were not fond memories. Days dragged through sewer tunnels too brightly lit that burned its eyes to blindness and threaded its screams, a blade forced into its hand and a body thrown to its feet, the kill ordered. At first Talon had refused. They had not liked that. Talon was punished. More burning lights, more bodies, and they had learned. Learned Talon would not bend to kill for such.

Then they had started to give the bodies their own weapons. Knives that would scratch its arms down to bone and skewers that would spoon out its guts until insides were outsides littered across the crimson carpet floor that it had stared at, as if confused about what to do, then picked up and shoved back in. Then one day a man had scratched too far, a ragged stake carving its right leg almost all the way open. And Talon had snapped. And Talon had killed.

It remembered its training. It had no desire to return to it.

It slunk dejectedly further into the shadows, tail sunk between its legs like the mutt it was, hoping that out of sight really did mean out of mind. False hope, the whispers continued, chasing its steps even after its form vanished. A light hiss of relief tingled its throat as torch light faded out into near utter blackness as it entered the rundown cave passages reserved for the Court ghosts. Ragged, worn bricks stunk to the scent of piss and spew, fit only for trash and killers. Where it belonged.

It did not keep Sir waiting, dropping out of the shadow and pressing its head to the ground in a silent plea for forgiveness. The apology went unheard one angered rant later, Talon was dragged from the room, plastic syringe sticking in its neck, woozy and fearful as pumped in drugs kicked through slowed veins, by three burly orderlies, each expressionless to pale bone canvas, as Sir watched on, sweat rolling off furrowed angry brow, his lips cocked up in an aloof sneer.

It screamed, suddenly alive and very aware, as they submerged it. Floods crawled over its face, fleeing into its nostrils, creeping down its gullet and pooling in its lungs. It howled, Loud wails ripping its throat to treacherously ricochet off close walls – fuzz white lines piercing its lids and pulling it back to _bright so bright_ as clean medical lights rocked like a halo above its head and hands held it **down, fingers pulling back sodden flesh** and stabbed needles through _pink skin bleached dull grey._

_Talon screeched_

_A pale man, lanky and unhealthily skinny, blinked dazedly out of time, slurring a little as he far too cheerily commented the spa services were terrible, his giggle cutting abruptly off into a choked gurgle as more hands fed over his front and back under into freezing darkness he was pushed._

Talon shrieked, its hands fighting against the straps pinning them, whether desperate to claw over its ears or slash the face open of the one holding it down as its brain was singing to. It was ripped free of the cold, expecting water and gasping when air instead burst punctures through its insides. And the image was gone, the man ripped away, scattered into a million shreds of paper that tore open in ragged crimson welts and fluttered off on the breeze.

 _C_ hill rushed through still veins and built towering panic threaded its lips open, impossibly cold ice that it fell out of, gasping, not even a moment passing before they dunked it down, back under to curdling horror, back to the freezing depths that it drowned, sinking further and further in endless eternities that stretched till its sight frosted over and slow veins stopped almost completely.

They lifted it out later – much later. Their faces hidden behind white masks, blank, clinical gaze sweeping over its body, calmed and collected, analytical as they lifted it out of the tank, dragging it from the slab coffin to pull it onto the ancient cobble. It was unsteady on its feet and stumbled, hands knocking tumblers and vials on the floor to hisses of smashed chemical and acids. They grabbed it but still it couldn’t stand, had to be propped uneasily between two of their shoulders, had a dull ache in its head, a buzzing dullness, as it always did after such sessions, a lump at the back of its throat that fed the suspicion that pounded its heart alive and told it something was terribly, horribly _wrong_ , that it was missing something –something extremely important – and these people were the cause. And yet it knew fighting would only take it back under, so it let them shine their lights into its sight and croaked responses when they pushed fingers in front of its eyes and demanded it answer how many.

They did not take it the usual way back to its cot after they had tired of pokes and prods, rather took a left than right and the unease started in the water tank chamber only built, rising more and more in the roof of its mouth as they continued, nausea peaking when they slowed. Talon’s gut dropped, sharp and steep, falling off some unseen cliff as it was abandoned and pushed forward, roughly ducked beneath tall oak trappings that fell behind its back with a sudden, final slam. It raised its head from the dusty arena floor, lifting its gaze to face the sea of faces that stared blandly back, the entire Court gathered, smugness practically dripping from obscured lips as they regarded their Talon. Their tool. And Sir, dark robes abandoned for a flash of royal purple, at the centre, smuggest of them all.

It wrenched its gaze off the ghosts, forcing its vision to the front. Its opponent, expecting to see the slide of an adult back, crisp bulge of matured muscles. Surprise filtered, passing for a brief second, when it instead found the stunted matchsticks of runt limbs, saggy bag of not yet developed power.  An owlet, they had thrown it a child; a young boy rising up only just to Talon’s knee, barely balancing a butter knife between chubby shaking fingers.

Talon paused, staring. The youngling stared back, eyes haunted, already well past their age. Talon wondered what the boy had seen for childish innocence to fade so soon. The cherub face was stained to rusted copper dirt and filth of crusty tears. The boy quivered where he stood, the knife still pushed out, held in front of his chest, jerking blade pointed up towards Talon’s face. Teary windows sparked alight to smouldering fire, not unlike the ones Talon thought it might have seen in a dream, once, locking on its form.

The raven locks stirred the beginnings of something, a clunky wrongness that settled in the pit of its belly. And the urge to kill went off wonky, somewhere along the line letters morphing to shape the desire of _protect._

“Kill.” The mob urged, chattering the word excitedly, those off to the side brandishing firesticks, shifting forward uneasy when it did not immediately. The infant trembled, emotion finally snapping like an elastic band yanked too far, the knife clattering to the sand, head throwing up at the command as tears, no longer able to be held back, exploded. Among the thunderous bloodlust, a lone voice cut, thin and weak, a scared little chick warbling for absent parents.

Talon leapt then, catching the boy gently but firmly, cooing comfort into the warm shell of ear, gently petting that ebony night, holding the miniature as it trilled, coaxing quiet. The boy did not immediately, but the cries lessened, growing hiccups as it patted arms, stroking tendrils of dark curls off misty eyes, before the noise silenced completely. Talon hushed further, the child shivering in its grip blinked, still scared, then burrowed his face gratefully into Talon’s chest. Its fingers ran down the boy’s back, gently trilling whenever the child hiccupped and clumsily smoothing circles over shivering flesh.

Harsh broken shards of pants keened into slow whispers of breath, the boy’s expression retreating into one of peace as his body relaxed, turning limp. surrendering and trusting the strange man holding him completely. Talon plunged its claws through the child’s heart, the skin breaking open cleanly and quickly. the body shuddered then stilled, still peacefully slumbering, as it plucked the organ from its fragile cage, crushing it to a messy pulp in its palm, and threw it and the broken doll at the crowd’s feet, the gone silent room exploding into cheers as men and women leapt to their feet, eagerly applauding their monstrosity.

It ignored them all, a sick turn flipping its belly as it glanced from the prone, broken form staining the dust to Sir, the leader regal, confidence rolling off waves and majestically seated – the only one still sitting.

Again, sickness rolled uneasy in its gut, but it had no desire to return to the pokes and prods, the terror as water filled its pores until full and then overflowed, _white walls, white room white white white._ So Talon shushed its inner protests and stooped to one knee when ordered, bent its head to submission and quietly whispered promise to the gathered crowd of Hood’s death. Even as beneath the cover of its mask it wept sorrowed grief and some strange part called _Richard_ cried and silently begged forgiveness.

…

This was different to their bantered back and forth. This wasn’t some playful tussle on a rooftop with each teasingly pushing the other’s boundaries to get the upper hand. This was real. And deadly. Jason yelped, ducking the arc of blade that would have taken his head. He didn’t know how the assassin had his swords back – wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d broken into the safehouse and recovered them. Fuck knows he broke in enough.

Something was different about Talon tonight. He hadn’t said a word since their encounter had begun, silently dropping from the sky and just attacking, Jason had only just been quick enough to avoid a new shave as the goon Red Hood had been squaring off of fell, unmoving and unbreathing, a fresh line of crimson spurting out of the hacked stump of neck remnants, to the sidewalk.

He threw his body to the side, sweeping out a leg and knocking the body poised on top of him away. Talon fell, going down like a bowled over skittle, only to pop back up seconds later, both of the blades still stubbornly clutched in gloved hands  as they lodged in and out of Jason’s arm. He gave a cry of shock, pulling back holding his wrist, the flesh under jacket sleeve soaking wet, torn open to bleach white of bone. He realised with horror as he shakily cocked the gun’s safety off and clumsily fired off shots that this was Talon trying, no holds barred, to _kill_ him.

Talon was fast, impossibly fast and inhumanely strong. The only reason Jason wasn’t dead yet was because the assassin was showing off, adding unnecessary flips to evasions, body sleekly spinning off turns with an exaggerated flare. He was turning the kill into something beautiful, a deadly dance of art style that Jason would probably have appreciated a lot more had he not been the unwilling partner.

The hunter moved through air like a dolphin through water, gravity seeming to have no hold whatsoever on the ethereal grace. Jason emptied his pockets’ contents; tossing the ammo-less, now useless gun off to the side. He hurriedly cycled through gum wrappers, cigarette boxes and crumpled receipts, tossing each to the curb, then hurled off a collection of batarangs in quick throws. The blades arced, lodging cleanly in ripples of costume to sink into lines of bicep, but if Talon cared anything to his new accessory he didn’t show it, the whirlwind of death continuing its advance regardless.  

In a last ditch effort Jason’s fingers closed on the hardened casing of his phone, jumping out of another sword arc as his fingers flew across the pad, punching out settings and cranking the screen up to full. Praying to god hanging around the world’s greatest detective had finally rubbed something off and his suspicions built off of never seeing the killer in the daylight were actually something more than flimsy theory, he lunged an arm out, bringing the screen, now lit up as bright as a Bruce Wayne Christmas tree, up to the killer’s face.

Talon screeched like a butchered pig, dropping its blades to claw desperately over its eyes. Its back hunkered over, feet unsteadily stumbling it in tiny steps all over directions, staggering left right, forward and backward before a well-aimed kick on Jason’s part had him down and writhing on the ground, face still shielded over by twitching arms.

The toe of boot connected with blade handle, sending each weapon skittering away out of reach. He hurried over, snapping out a pair of metal cuffs off his belt. He heaved the body up into a sitting position, snatching the struggling limbs off scrunched up lids, anchoring the flailing wrists to loop around the pillar of streetlamp and clicking the bracelets into place.

Talon stopped squirming, turning totally stock still at the sound of the locks snapping into place. Jason breathed heavily, lowering his body to hover a crouch in front of the snared assassin. He leaned forward, slowly, Talon’s eyes heavy on his own all the way.

Jason took his moment and pounced. He had to know. Had to see. His fingers reached up and found the edge of the hood before the killer had chance to move away. He felt Talon freeze up, then, the assassin’s entire body shocked ramrod straight, as he cautiously hooked the digits under the man’s jaw.  Lines of neck twitched, flexing unsure, before the assassin wordlessly lifted his head, baring his neck open for Jason’s to safely unlatch the mask’s defences, a low hiss sounding the deactivation.

Fabric pulled back, painstakingly slowly sliding back over well squared jaw and cracked grey lips.

Jason froze, suddenly forgetting how to breathe as his mind stuttered and collapsed, crashing into shutdown as all logic short-circuited. No fucking way. No. No way. Not possible. Nightwing didn’t kill. Richard Grayson wasn’t an unstable murderer who took a bullet to the face and just got straight back up. Except all the evidence he needed was staring dumbly back at him in the face. And Nightwing had been missing for seven weeks. Avian-themed assassins climbed down from ladders as lightbulbs clicked into place. Suddenly it all made sense. Who else but a Grayson would be that elegant in air?

“Fuck.” Jason breathed, his voice cracked. A myriad of emotions swelled into a crescendo, none of them good. “What the hell did they do to you, Dick?”

He expected some dumb quip. The dopy grin. The man to turn and smile and excitedly chatter _What didn’t they do to me, Jaybird?_ Instead Dick winced, hurt flickering through dazed eyes as if Jason had just slapped him across the face.

Talon- **_Dick_** watched him through a hooded glare. “I do not appreciate such insult.”

Jason’s breath caught then quickened as his eyes narrowed. “No idiot, that’s your name.”

Dick looked puzzled. “I am Talon.” Amber eyes that should have been the brightest blue blinked.

And Jason realised then. Oh god the idiot didn’t even know his own name.

“Shit man, quit playing okay?” _Please_ he begged silently because he couldn’t put that much desperation into words. Couldn’t let Dick know how much he cared, how much it **hurt**. Please just shoot that idiotic smile, open that dopy mouth and say that you’re undercover or some shit. That this is just pretend, Bruce is being an ass as usual and has you on heavy duty undercover work.

“Dick, c’mon don’t be a dick, this ain’t funny.” Jason whined, raw emotion no longer hidden, the desperation he couldn’t hide any longer thickening his words. Because oh god it was real. Dick was a good actor but he could never fake anything like this that well.

“It’s me, Dick.” His throat closed, choking on the name. “It’s _Jason_ **.”**

“Jason?” Dick croaked. He stared at him. Properly, seeing something other than assigned victim for the first time that night, and Jason almost tricked himself into believing that his name had worked. Like anything would ever be so easy in life for Jason Todd.

Recognition sparked then fizzed out. Dick’s voice wavering as he gazed, the bloodlust slowly eating the amber eerie black. Gloved claws ran over Jason’s hair in a loving pat – the kind you’d give a stray dog off the street. Jason blanched, realising somehow Dick had managed to get free of the cuffs. The other joined the first in freedom, cupping Jason’s cheek.

Dick smiled. A grin of too sharp teeth that stretched far too wide. “You run now, little bird.”

Jason stared at Dick Grayson. Dick Grayson who had so rigidly followed Bruce’s rules and refused to take one life, not even from the guy who killed his parents in cold blood to his face. _Dick Grayson_ who had just oh so casually separated the head and shoulders from the corpse not one metre away from him. Dick Grayson, the Talon. The Talon who was watching him, hungrily, now free of any restraints and poised as if about to leap into action.

He nodded slowly. Mouth dry. He was pretty sure run now was probably the best advice anyone had ever given him since don’t go near crowbars and homicidal maniacs in clown costumes. They hurt.

He took one more look at Dick, sick to the stomach and feeling something far more than just the guilt he told himself it was. Then he turned and legged it, not wanting to think about the amnesiac idiot of a relative he was abandoning in favour of his own skin, sprinting down the road, tears clogging his vision, fast as possible when barely able to breathe and holding the tattered remains of his wrist, down the street.

 


	15. How to Break a Bird

…

Eight Weeks Earlier

**_…_ **

**_Beware the Court of Owls_ **

**_…_ **

**_Dick grunted awake, scowling as the heavy metal traps snaring his wrists above his ears chimed a dull protest. One eye twitched open then shut, closely followed by both pairs widening, they blinked a little more awake. He squinted, peering through the darkness, heart slowly crawling its way up his throat a little more with each new finding. He was in a room, well less a room and more classic medieval dungeon/torture chamber. Four cramped in walls, one of which he was shoved up in a poor seating position against, dirty stone floor, no windows. The entire place was settled in an uneasy darkness. He was used to working through entirely pitch ink, even felt at home in it – never as much as Bruce, but shadows offered some small comfort, at least – but this smog was entirely different. It ate away at his insides, shrill sharp nips that joined the ringing clanks as he tested the shackles’ strength. Neither birds nor bats liked to be caged. He was pretty sure Bruce was going to kill him, and if he didn’t, Damian surely would._**

**_He leaned back, repressing the urge to sigh. In his defence, it wasn’t his fault, because who the hell got back from their regular, exhausting routine of taking names and smashing heads together, to their house, their safe, not so safe unknown house, and expected  to get jumped by hired goons seconds in after making it through the front door? Bruce would. His mind chose the moment to whisper unhelpfully, further confirming his suspicions that he would never be worthy of the cape and cowl. Dick’s scowl deepened, chest heaving in on itself as the sigh finally escaped his body. The answer was extremely depressing._ **

**_He wriggled toes, experimentally flexing the ends of fingers. He winced. His limbs were a roll of flesh and bone held together by numbed aches, the beginning swells of purple speckles already blooming through the coffee tan. He’d managed to get a few hits in, desperately dragging his tired body into the basic ducks and weaves he’d drilled into it till polished routine, but the fight was well and truly over when some bastard had drawn a bitch of a fist and smashed his face in. He’d struggled through the next blows, vision hazy and blurred, but it was only a matter of time before he was downed and soon the inevitable had happened; his ankle had been grabbed, viciously yanked from out beneath him, and down to the ground he went, his face saying hearty hello to floorboard, five versus one becoming five against none as darkness encroached._ **

**_He sighed, curling his toes before they could fall asleep. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to the coming hours and leaning his head to thud gently against the wall. He’d done this song and dance before. He just had to sit around and wait patiently for the bat to bust his ass out of wherever he’d ended up this time. He wasn’t worried. Bruce would come. He always came._ **

**_…_ **

**_That watches all the time_ **

**_…_ **

**_Bruce hadn’t come. But his captors had. And finally he had a name to the people who had invaded his home and dragged him, bloody, beaten and unconscious, from his life. The Court of Owls. He’d laughed when they told him – a nursery rhyme, a bloody nursery rhyme that Bruce would cradle his head on his lap and whisper into his ear whenever he had a nightmare (death threats, not the most relaxing thing for an eleven something to hear, 10/10 parenting there Brucie). He was still laughing when they slugged his face and snapped his nose. That bone had broken before, tended to be the first one to go when you only had a thin slip of tar protecting your face, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt._ **

**_Days passed – at least he guessed they were days, his cell was still painfully lacking in decoration, windows being one of them, and his inner body clock had already phoned it in after the third round of waking up having been beaten to unconsciousness. He didn’t have much to do, sometimes they visited, often when he was drifting, caught between reality and illusion. He recognised the ones that had taken him – bigger and burlier than the rest, the voice angrier, faster to rile, one offhand chirp enough to spark that fuse, their leg stuck in an uneasy limp from where he’d viciously roundhoused the knee. They asked him questions when they came._ **

**_“How many Bats are there in Gotham?”_ **

**_“How many capes in the city?”_ **

**_“What is the Bat’s relation to the Red Hood?”_ **

**_He would pull his gums back, flashing a chipper grin, batting away their questions with quips and jokes, until they leaned in, prodding him with some metallic tool that poked hot fire through his skin, the flesh bubbling and tearing off in thin, burnt strands. He’d laugh that off too, until laughs became screams and his eyes closed of their own accord._ **

**_When he opened them again they were gone._ **

**_…_ **

**_Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch_ **

**_…_ **

**_He figured the water they brought him was drugged when he stared up into the face of his dead mother. “Crap.” He slurred, unable to tear his own off the unseeing glaze of Mary Grayson’s eyes. He whimpered, pushing his knees into his chest and burying his face into the caps. He curled his body into the wall, pressing his body back as far as it could go, only to shriek and jerk away as the solid became hands, hundreds of them, reaching out to claw at him with their faces behind that he recognised, Bruce Damian Jason his parents Tim._ **

**_“You failed us.” John Grayson’s mouth moved, the corpse staring, otherwise entirely lifeless as Mary Grayson’s bone dead fingers tethered his ankle in place. “You let our killer get away.”_ **

**_“I’m sorry.” He rambled. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so-“_ **

**_“Tick tock,” Dick froze, a startled deer staring at its murder, as that voice, that insane manic instantly recognisable voice sang, the plum suit stepping out of the smog and into the spotlight, dinner gloves gleefully swapping the  glint of carving knife from hand to hand. “Always did like you the best of the bunch kiddo,” Joker guffawed, leaning down and running the knife over his cheek. “Actually had some manners, not like the others. But oh how kids these days grow. How’s it go, zero no hero, first the worst, second the best- ah no that’s not right, second one’s dead.”_ **

**_Dick doubled over and retched._ **

**_Next came Two Face. It was fitting for him to be the second one. He guessed the villain had to live up to his name, but honestly? He’d been hoping for Ivy. “Heads we only break a leg, tails we break everything.” Dent purred, the acid flecks and burnt skin pushing into a horrific grin as the monstrous side leered at him._ **

**_He flipped, tan skin twisting a hungry sneer as he stared at the boy, fingers gleefully sliding back over the scratched side of rusty quarter. “A shame,” he smiled as he hefted a crowbar off his shoulders and brought it down on his leg, the pain blinding spots to his eyes, almost enough to pull him completely under with just the one blow. Dick yelped, screeching, tears in his eyes glistening as they raced his cheeks. Oh god, was that what Jason had gone through, alone and waiting for someone who wasn’t coming to save him?_ **

**_The third time he gagged awake, limply lifting his head at the tinned echo of obnoxious chuckle. “Aw hell no.”_ **

**_“Richard.” Slade purred. He flinched as gloves gripped his chin, tipping his face back to stare into the one burning eye. “Did you really think you could get away so easily?” he squirmed as the other hand descended, fondling a flash of black orange R before falling lower and lower until it rested on the flat plate of his belly. “We’re so alike, you and I.” the villain murmured, leaning to drip the words in his trembling ear._ **

**_“N-n-no.” he whimpered, struggling against the grip but after days of starvation and limited dehydration he could barely manage a weak twitch._ **

**_“So much rage, never enough trust. Never anyone to care.” The mercenary simpered, dragging his thumb down Dick’s cheek, stopping at his jaw as the other hand reached behind the thunderous mass of back, passing the broadsword blade to pull something else out…._ **

**_“No!” Dick screamed, spittle flying, struggling all his energy into desperate yearns against the chains and grip holding him, screeching as the Renegade hood was drawn over his face once more_ **

**_..._ **

**_Behind granite and lime_ **

**_…_ **

**_Talon. They whispered when they came now, soothing hands drawing out of cloaks and stroking his hair, calling him a name that wasn’t his, soft little gestures of care that hurt more than any blow they had inflicted, pulling at his consciousness, picking his sanity apart._ **

**_“Stop calling me that!” He screamed, surprised he could even find voice to, his throat so seared, scratchy and burnt hoarse from hours spent of endless yelling at walls. “I’m not your Talon or bird or whatever, my name is Dick, Richard Grayson, son of John and Mary Grayson, ward of Bruce Wayne!”_ **

**_They laughed. Telling him he was wrong. That he’d know soon. That he just had to open his eyes and see._ **

**_That they were doing this for him. His destiny. His path._ **

**_He just had to see it. They were going to make him see it._ **

**_He banged his head against the wall and screamed till hoarse and mute for Bruce._ **

**_Bruce didn’t come._ **

**_Maybe Bruce was never coming._ **

**_…_ **

**_They watch you at your hearth_ **

**_…_ **

**_He was crying. Again. He had taken to doing that a lot lately, the water running down his cheeks to peel some of the gathered dirt off his skin, his eyes bulged, puffed and bloodshot, their pupils cracked to jagged spiderwebs of crimson. He could never quite raise the smile to reach his crinkled lids._ **

**_Because if this were Jason he’d be flipping them the tweet tweet bird and telling them all loudly, brashly, obnoxiously to go eat a dick, if this were Tim he’d be spending the time analysing the texture of wall to work out the structural weakness point, if this were Dami he’d never panic and if this were Bruce he’d already be out._**

**_Bruce, Jason, Tim, Damian.  God he missed them all. Tim, with his genius and always eager to please attitude. Kinda like a puppy. Jason. If Tim was a puppy then Jay was a snarling bulldog, bold and brash and ready to attack, but adorable under the right praise. And Damian. Damian. Once past the entire I must defeat you to claim my rightful place as head son in the family phase, his kid brother was an adorable creampuff. An adorable creampuff with anger management issues and a penchant for explicitly graphic violence, but a creampuff nonetheless._ **

**_He grinned  at that, a small rueful thing that ticked the sides of his mouth up despite the situation, picturing the image of a snarling Damian furiously protesting that yes he damn well was tall enough to fit the Nightwing suit. Either Jason or Tim, one of them would have to, before someone joined the dots of the MIA vigilante and Bruce Wayne’s absent billionaire boy._**

**_He shifted in his seat, a moan escaping as arms raised uncomfortably above his head slowly returned to life._ **

**_He managed to dislocate one wrist before they realised, the one he called Chuckles for that shit-eating smug cackle throwing open the cell door and storming into his crypt._ **

**_His mouth closed, metallics buzzed against his cracked lips, his teeth tearing into the flesh so hard he felt the harsh tang of blood. He wouldn’t scream. Refused to, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d managed to hurt him. He’d gone through worse; Two Face had almost put him out of the game for good, Joker had nearly killed him on each of their run-ins. Bruce’s rogue gallery had wheeled out the torture chair on numerous occasions. This was nothing new, nothing he couldn’t handle._ **

**_He defiantly raised his head to lock gaze with the monster loomed above, hucked up as much moisture as he could find in the dried desert of his mouth and spat, landing a perfect hit. The slime spattered a leaking trail down the side of expressionless owl mask._ **

**_The bulges to the rusted sides of his mouth screeched protest as he gave a toothy grin. Determination surged new life into his ragged body. He wouldn’t scream. He wouldn’t._ **

**_Gloved fingers grabbed his wrist, roughly dragging the limb up. The second hand smoothed his balled fist open. The first of his fingers bent unnaturally back._ **

**_His head threw back. Eyes bulging. Unable to hold the agony back, he screamed._ **

**_…_ **

**_They watch you in your bed_ **

**_…_ **

**_They came more often._ **

**_When they did he would talk – at first out loud, gnattering away to the stained bricks boxing him in about anything he could think of, running tangents of tangents to chatter off about Alf’s cookies – best in Gotham, probably the universe, bragging about Dami’s report cards (oh Dami I’m so proud of you, you didn’t even threaten to mutilate your gym teacher this week), Bruce’s stoic assholeness (he cares, really, but gosh he can be such a stubborn ass about it), then later in his mind, after one particularly vehement death threat had a greased rag shoved past his dried lips._ **

**_He winced as he sniffed the stench, ode de la twelve hours of nonstop torture. His stomach growled its disagreements as he feebly lifted his face. “You know this service bites, no au derves, and I ordered those scallops hours ago.” He called aloud, wondering if anyone heard. If they did they didn’t answer._ **

**_He passed the time numbly counting down the hands of a hickory dickary dock, though no mouse ran up his tick tock clock. He would mumble away things, repeating everything he knew, though things had a habit of getting… muddled, and sometimes he would scream, beating his heels into the dirt in frustration, sure that whatever had just said was wrong wrong wrong. I’m Dick Grayson, of course I’m Gray son, I mean Talon I mean Dick I mean Talon – oh no now that wasn’t right._ **

**_They stuffed the rag in between his lips; his teeth sputtering as they unceremoniously shoved it through his mouth and almost halfway down his throat. Forcing his quiet._ **

**_And soon_ **

**_His world had retreated to four walls, atmosphere dead weight to murky darkness and lead silence._ **

**_An eerie, dead quiet. The kind that clawed sharpened nails to smother over your throat as it lit a match to dry over your tongue,_ **

**_that shackled chinks of hard iron to your ankle to drag you deeper as it threw you screaming into an ice frozen pond._ **

**_That settled a layer of the world uneasily on your shoulders as your back broke and form hunched further beneath the weight._ **

**_He was breaking, he knew, breaking in two – heh, a giggle, ragged and dull, passed his lips at the rhyme._ **

**_Or maybe he had already broken and his mind was still playing catch up. Insanity was the latest hit trend after all._ **

**_The giggle descended into a cackle, his head tipping back and forth as the sound barged the air out of his lungs._ **

**_More tears gathered in his eyes, dribbling over their crusted ancestors. He fought for breath, wondering if he was too pathetic for even the Joker to spare a laugh for – ah what the heck, of course he was, but the clown would still give a giggle, he’d laugh at anything after all._ **

**_…_ **

**_Speak not a whispered word of them_ **

**_…_ **

**_“Where…we going?” he mewled against the rag, but all that came out were dull muffled croaks._ **

**_He couldn’t even raise the ghost of a smile when they came from him – the door throwing open and cracks of light streaming in after another eternity. His head drooped into his chest, tired eyes barely glancing up as rough hands worked over his arms and shackles clinked off the hook._ **

**_The owl masks grinned down at him, sickeningly white in the blinding light as they pulled him down from his prison, silent as they dragged him away. He let them, offering no resistance, remaining on the ground, entirely still, his face shoved into the floor and ass lifted up inelegantly into the air, when they pushed  his body off, throwing it clumsily forward through a trap. Minutes passed, dragging like hours, and only then he moved, sure that they weren’t returning, had left him alone for some new torment. Only then did he yank the gag free and pick himself off bleached clean hard tiles, crawling on numb knees, his eyes wearily sweeping whatever new torture they had laid on for their sick entertainment._ **

**_Labyrinth. Tim had told him about a labyrinth once. Built beneath a city by a mad king with a monstrous bull to haunt the corridors and gore the challengers. They’d made it out though – with the help of a princess and some magic ball of string. There was no princess or knitting ball of destiny, it was just him and the monsters, creeping shadows that plagued his sight, instead of here a moo moo moo there a moo moo only white blank walls whispering his insecurities._ **

**_He was weak. A failure. Flawed. He’d failed to rescue Jay from Joker, he wasn’t as strong as Jay or smart as Tim or good with weapons as Damian. He was an acrobat, a circus brat. Oh he’d heard their whispers that had circulated when they thought his back turned – how could he not when their disgust was openly displayed in their eyes, their refusal to even take his outstretched hand hanging awkwardly in the space between him, cheeks flushing as he clumsily dropped it – now dead weight – down to his side._ **

**_Just a trapezist picked up for a five second flavour of the week. No one had expected Bruce to keep him – must have been a damn good fuck for five seconds to span into five years and then an ever better lay for that to go on even longer. Just a circus brat. And what good were flips and trapeze skills on the battlefield? What need did Bruce have for a spare, good for nothing false son when his own flesh and blood had appeared on the doorstep one day, rang the doorbell and bluntly declared his moving in? He’d never been Dick Wayne. And now it turned out he wasn’t even Dick Grayson but Dick Gray Son. His entire life he’d at least had Haly’s. And now he didn’t even get to have that. The circus had sold him out. His friends had skinned him up. He wasn’t even a boy. Just DNA bred to be a killer._ **

**_The only ones who had ever seemed to want him had been the bad guys. Slade, Ivy, even Joker had tried his metallic playing cards at a piece of Grayson. Not that they ever asked nicely, dropping the base pleasantries, their invitation over to the dark side usually extending through a decent slug to the face or the never gets old trick of threatening people close, Bats and Babs, then later Star and the Titans, Tim, Jason, poor Jason and Damian. Dick grimaced, sighing softly to himself. Just once in a while would it kill them to ask nicely? Though he doubted please and thank you were words often used in the Terminator’s vocabulary._ **

**_He hauled himself up, balancing all his weight brokenly onto the wall, and began to shuffle forward, heaving himself past the giant marble owl, its beak thrust open, a stream of crystal bursting out to cascade down to the inviting pool below. He stared at it sourly as he shambled by, taking the left corridor, knowing it was at best drugged. This was a maze, and all mazes had an exit. Maybe if he found this one, he could finally get out._ **

**_It took him an hour – it could have been an hour, felt like an hour too, but he’d long given up on trying to keep a track of time – to get totally and utterly lost. He turned a corner, sure that he’d been down the way before. But all the walls were the same unforgiving crisp white, all the corners unmarked and exact copies of the predecessor._ **

**_He scratched things into the walls with raggy stumps of nails. Arrows, tallies, odd little words that fell out of his mind. He did his best – loose scrawls of ragged letterings, twitches of things he should know but didn’t, words on the edge of his tongue that he could never quite concentrate enough to drag out and say. He ripped off the little rags still clinging to his body, numbly registering the sensation of cold as naked skin collided with the chilled air. He tore the strands into thin strips, lining a new one to each of the corners he turned, then continuing on his way._ **

**_Exhausted and unable to feel the soles of his feet, He broke down and screamed. His hands gripped his head, eyes bulging wide in their sockets madly. He staggered off the wall he’d been leaning off of, his fingers wrenching lines of flesh, slumping his back against the base of fountain.  He was back to where he had started._ **

**_…_ **

**_Or they’ll send_ **

**_…_ **

**_He was right, the water was drugged. He knew it on the first hastily cupped mouthful, the taste tangy and not at all clean, already painting a stripe of sickness uneasily rolling in his belly. he did his best, stumbling as far away from it as his warped feet allowed, collapsing against a wall, breathless and panicky as nerves sparked alive, gasps haggard as they barged their way out._ **

**_He counted thumps of his heart, had reached nearly 3267 thumps when his throat cracked, unbearable.  The burning in his throat was still there, wouldn’t stop, demanded liquid. And he found himself crawling back to the water once more._ **

**_…_ **

**_The Talon_ **

**_…_ **

**_He stared into the water, the broken corpses of his family staring back._ **

**_He wondered what it would be like to drown._ **

**_“Look after B for me, kay guys? Don’t let him, don’t let him become that thing he did after Jace.” He choked the words out, body cracking over to peels of weak coughs. One finger dipped over the water’s surface, pushing ebony strands off emerald eyes. “We all love you, Jay. Sorry I never got to make you see that. He does too, in his own weird way. Keep Dami from beheading any criminals, Tim. He’s a good kid. Just a little hotheaded.”_ **

**_The finger withdrew, curling over stone to tightly grip the edge, muscles screeching protest as he stubbornly heaved his self onto the rim, a shred of nerve clamouring as he faced the depths, as painful as their beautiful clarity._ **

**_He wondered whether it would hurt._ **

**_Air rushed, buzzing past his ears as gravity claimed possession._ **

**_The water was cold, painfully cold._ **

**_He forced his arms still, the chill descending, already turning each limb to numb splinters of dead flesh._**

**_His mind blared alarm, instinct forcing his mouth open, expecting life, not ready for the assault water rushing, slamming its way boldly down his gullet. He choked, gurgling as cheeks bulged, unable to hold it all._ **

**_The clock hands of his mortality slowed, cog gears grinding, a little longer then a lot, till they had near completely stopped._ **

**_A small smile settled across his lips. He had won. He had found the Labyrinth’s exit._ **

**_…_ **

**_For your head_ **

**_…_ **

**_He screamed when he woke up, an army of needles and IV’s jammed in between the straps binding his skin. Everything was too bright, too loud. He flinched back, feeling the jerk of impact against cold lab gurney, howling._**

**_They hadn’t let him die. They hadn’t let this end._ **

****

****

****


	16. Coming Undone

Talon did not immediately follow its prey. Rather it stayed where it was, unveiled hollow eyes staring unblinkingly after where the man had run off. Its namesake trembled, each flexing individually, though Talon was unsure whether they pictured strangling or soothing the strange little bird, the fuzz and tug-of-war of emotion that had welled at their oh so sweetly chirped name continuing its churn.

**J a s o n**

“J a s o n “ Talon rasped, savouring every letter that rolled off his tongue. That left his head spinning and legs woozily about to collapse out from beneath it as each unravelled, picking at carefully laid stitches to rip them apart from its seams.

**J a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a s o n j a**

**y b i r d**

“Little Wing.” Talon croaked, some strange part bursting with glee at getting the name right, a rejoicing inner whoop almost lifting a fist to punch the air. Clouds lifted, thick fog parting ever so slightly, and Talon dove, forcing itself into the space deeper before the opportunity could close, screeching as suddenly it was catapulted out from its seat against the streetlight and into some strange room on some strange bed, four walls herding him in that he knew but didn’t and the man who was a stranger but wasn’t watching him from the entrance with a grimace.

_“Come on Jaybird.” He whined as he balanced a perfect handstand on top of the bed. His ill-fitting tee lasted five seconds before it was caught by gravity, slipping down his front to cling the chiselled jaw in a baggy noose, baring the previously hidden perfectly formed lines of sun-kissed flesh. Pronounced muscles rippled to thin crystal beads of perspiration, their definition drawn taut as they clenched. “It’ll be fun!”_

_“For the list time, Dickhead. No.” Jason growled from where he stood in the open door frame, his arms crossed tightly over to his chest. “I am not curling up with you on **my** bed to watch **your** dumb chick flicks.”_

_Dick’s lips split to an impish grin. “What about Disney?”_

_Jason eyed the former Boy Wonder incredulously. “You did not seriously climb two storeys up the gutter, break into my home and disable all my alarms to ask me to watch The Little Mermaid, did you?”_

_“No.” Dick mumbled sulkily. Had he been standing, his feet would be petulantly scuffing off the carpet. “Not The Little Mermaid, Cinderalla.”_

_Jason’s brow quirked as he ground. “No.” through clenched dentals._

_Dick’s face scrunched, his lips pulled up in an exaggerated grimace. “Well Dami and Tim are arguing, and you know how murdery they get when they’re fighting, and Bruce is sulking over Nigma’s latest teaser so the Cave is a no-go zone for the next twenty four hours.”_

_“Dammit Dick, that doesn’t mean you come here!” Jason yelled, infuriated._

_“Oh.” Dick’s grin drooped, his expression crestfallen. He paused, lost in thought, before his features returned to animation, his baby blues shining as he brightened. “How about Beauty and the Beast?”_

_“No.” Jason repeated flatly._

_“But it’s a classic!” Dick protested. “And it’s totally the story of us! I’m super smart and totally under appreciated and you’re super grumpy and always losing your temper!” He snickered. “You’d make a great Beast!”_

_Jason tiredly ran a hand through his bangs, pulling at the ends of his hair in exasperation. He shifted his weight, slumping against the wall beside the door. “You’re not going to leave until I agree, are you?”_

_“No~pe.” Dick sang, happily popping the word between his lips._

_“You’re an asshole, you know that.”_

_“Mhmm,” Dick vaguely hummed his agreement before he smiled triumphantly. His tone turned smug. “But an asshole who got you to watch Beauty and the Beast.”_

_Jason groaned, his shoulders deflating in defeat. “Fine, go get the DVD because I know you brought it.”_

_“Too right I did,” Dick chuckled, gracefully lowering legs back down to solid, elegantly slipping out of the stand to brush past Jason, disappearing down the corridor, his echoing voice poorly warbling the beginning lines of Tale as Old as Time._

Talon gasped, gagging on air as it was suddenly wrenched out of the dream memory and rudely thrown back to reality. Its world swam, clever sight reduced to a crumbling mess of distorted fuzzy lines that refused to align. Organs hammered, clawing their way slowly up his throat as his legs pushed up, supporting his weight just long enough for a hand to wrap the post and pull his body against it.

He swayed drunkenly into the pole, gasps stuttering into staggered moans as his head pounded, the name still surging its round, incessantly nibbling through the little barriers of do not cross, urged on by quickly growing stronger whispers from _Richard._

Talon’s eyes bugged at the name, the pupils rambling madly in their sockets. He detached a hand off the pole, raising it to his lips and pressing a finger through beneath a canine, biting down hard to work the glove off, staring, shivering uncontrollably, at the grey skin in front of his face.

Talon keened as suddenly the lamp supporting it had vanished, the murky street darkness too, replaced by a homely warmth and over excessive supply of hung strip lighting. It was far too bright and yet somehow the lights didn’t hurt his eyes.

_Dick stared at the objects in front of him, glaring at each as if they had just escaped Arkham. God knew every animate criminal managed it so often he wouldn’t be surprised if inanimate objects were able._

_“Okay Grayson, chicken soup. It’s just soup, you can do this.”  Behind his back Jay’s comm line was making weird snuffle noises that sounded as if his body had temporarily been possessed by a pig. Stranger things had happened. Dick’s gut dropped to a sharp pang of guilt. It was, after all, his fault the kid was bundled up in forced bed rest, more blanket than boy. His miscalculations had ended the teen with an uncomfortably close up and personal introduction to Oz’s leopard seals. And from his own experience, Dick knew Oz didn’t believe in heating swimming pools. Or pet killer seal ponds._

_He glared at the- what the hell even was that? With those holes it seemed more fitted for a painful torture session than cooking. He jammed his hands on his hips and determinedly stared the headless carcass down. Jay was counting on him. He could do this. He could do this. He could so totally…_

_…Not do this._

_“DAMMIT!” He screamed, leaping to hurriedly snatch the pan from off the hob as it exploded into a wreath of auburn flame. Again. The optimistically uncovered shirt stuck damp to his skin, coppery smears decorating several areas. The cookbook that had started off innocently propped on the counter was now flung angrily across the room; the original two pots had multiplied to twelve, stacked messily off the counters and piled on any surface available. Sweat rolled off his brow in heavy beads that clung his face, his cheeks were painted bright sheens of fire engine, his breath was pushed to sharp jagged gasps and he was one more sudden chicken barbecue away from a Summer spent in a padded cell next to Joker._

_“No no no no” he muttered, wrenching fistfuls out of his hair._

_Half his mind was currently occupied with talking the other half out of phoning it in and simply ordering take out. Or calling Alfred. Although that idea was quickly shot down at a quick glance around the kitchen. The poor place looked as if a nuclear bomb had detonated. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to get half cooked globs of chicken soup on the ceiling fan but somehow he **had**. _

_He stared at the finished product, brow furrowed in angry concentration. On one hand it looked at least edible, and crispiness added flavour…right? He dipped a finger gingerly into the bubbling yellow swill, raised it to its lips and gave a hesitant lick. So edible was somewhat of a stretch, but Jay’s taste buds were so far gone he probably wouldn’t taste the wallpaper paste. Hopefully._

_“Jay!” He called, schooling his voice to feign innocence and scooping the bowl onto a tray. He plastered a grin over the grimace, forcing brightness as he made his way up the steps and through the maze of corridors to the sick boy’s room. “I made dinner.”_

_Jason raised an eyebrow at the ‘dinner as it was thrust into his lap. ”Really?” He snorted. “You? Dick Grayson, Disaster Chief, made soup?”_

_Dick gasped, harrumphing indignantly as he lifted one finger in scolding. “Not just soup. Chicken soup, Little Wing. For little Robins to grow big and strong. Eat up.”_

_Jason’s lips twitched upon the first spoonful. He gagged on the second, his face scrunching up entirely on the third. “Dammit Dick.” He groaned, face peeped out from the thirty or so blankets clinging his figure. “I knew you were trying to fucking poison me.”_

_“Language,” Dick corrected softly. He patted the boy’s head, playing with the little strands of night tucked against his chest. Jay made small mewls of protest but both hands stayed firmly beneath covers and soon the sounds had evened into petit huffs of breath. Dick gently slipped out of the embrace, slowly raising himself off his perch on the bed._

_He grinned as he slipped to the door, pausing at its frame to flick the light off and stare at the slumbering boy, the empty bowl clutched to his chest. He practically skipped back the way he’d come, floating off happiness before that joy sunk like the Titanic, a fumed bellow of “MASTER GRAYSON” sending him crashing back down to earth and reminding him of the apocalypse to clean up below._

Talon stumbled off the lamp, throwing its body into the mercy of open space as it staggered, tripping over anything and everything, clumsily collapsing only to scrabble madly at the ground and push its body back up, limping away. A hand was permanently jammed into his head, a rare cover of soft midnight in favour of the usual thick reinforced leather.

One foot skidded away from him and he went down, all inners knocked from his inside as his face impacted with harsh concrete. He blinked and Richard’s world slid shut only to re-open once more, confusion creasing the lids open wider as air rushed, blood pumping to pound the insides of his head.

_Nightwing sighed as he stared at the wall. There wasn’t much to say about it really. It was your basic run of the mill slab of Gotham Grey cement. There wasn’t much odd or special in any way about it, nothing to give any reason to why it had occupied his entire interest for the past five minutes. Other than that he was currently staring at it upside down._

_He flexed his limbs against their leafy bindings, finding that he could move the entire total of a pinkie finger. Hanging upside down in the middle of a some villain’s ‘super secret’ not secret enough that he couldn’t find it blindfolded and spun till dizzy in five minutes lair was basically his average Monday. Some teens went out and got hangovers or stayed in and did their homework. Dick Grayson got assaulted by oversized potted plants._

_He really should be used to this, he supposed. Kidnap was practically listed as common hazard in the Robin signup sheet._

_He waggled the courageous pinkie, realising with despair that the stub would never reach the two discarded eskrima staining the tile two metres from his head. He grunted in defeat, resigning himself to waiting for Batman. He just hoped he didn’t bring Robin. Damian did not need to see his older brother and years more experienced instructor strung up like a wet blouse put out to dry as he waited for rescue._

_He glanced down, unsurprised to see Ivy still proudly monolouging. The speech, complete with grand sweeps of hands and typical villain cackle seemed so rehearsed he wondered if she’d practiced saying it to the mirror before he’d come.it wouldn’t be surprising. Mostly all of bruce’s rogues gallery had a flare for the dramatic, any of them, he suspected, if they ever rejoined upstanding society, would be more than a hit on Broadway._

_”You know I’d love to hang around and chat, but something came up. Emergency at work. So I really should be going.” He chattered idly. He grimaced as his head buzzed. His internal clock told he’d been here for about twenty minutes. Twenty minutes without a respirator. His suit stuck uncomfortably close to his hips and his words were already starting to slur. With Ivy that was never a good sign._

_“You always were my favourite.”  Ivy purred._

_“Aw shucks, you’re going to make me blush.” Dick yelled out as he strained his head, furtively glancing at the string of broken panes from the corner of his eye. Come on Bruce, it’s Ivy and a friggin abandoned greenhouse, you should have been here ten minutes ago._

_“Cute little thing, funny too. Shame about the mouth though.” The female cooed._

_Dick grinned. Jay had always said his mouth was his most unattractive quality. Something asshole, something punchable douche. Typical Jaybird. “Can’t be perrrrfect. S’what maches ush human.” He winced at the slur. The words sounded like he’d just chugged thirteen straight tequila shots._

_“Some come exceptionally close though.” The villainess simpered, eyes raking his form appreciatively._

_“Uh yeah,” He trailed, confused. This wasn’t following the normal villain / trapped hero handbook. It almost sounded like Ivy was…flirting with him._

_“Well defined muscles,” Ivy mused, circling the ground beneath him like a great white smelled dinner.  “Perfectly flowing ebony locks, and that tightly rounded ass.” She cooed appreciatively._

_“Uh yeah…wait what?” his voice scrambled, eyes widening behind the mask as he back pedalled. “I’m er flattered, I really am, Ivy. But the thing is” You’re a crazy plant lady who’s tried to kill off all human life and is wanted in over fifty states.” I’m not really looking for a relationship right now.”_

_Keep her talking, keep her busy, keep her anything but the pollen-_

_“Oh you say that now but in about three minutes I think you’ll find your opinions may have changed. In fact I’m sure you’ll be screaming for it.” Ivy coaxed, one mascaraed lash batting a playful wink._

_Shit._

_Dick panicked, his voice jumping up in distress. “You know, if you’re wanting something I know some really great guys-“ He writhed against his bindings with a new sense of urgency as the villainess approached. “-How about Speedy, or Kid Flash? I mean, he’s a bit of a fixer upper but he’s really quite the catch,” Dick gabbled, words racing out of his closing throat as he thrashed, attempting to back away from the woman who had halted her approach and was now stood directly below him._

_“Oh, but I have the perfect catch right here.” She pouted. “Come on mister heartbreaker, I promise I’ll play nice.”_

_Dick didn’t want nice. He didn’t want to play full stop. What he wanted was a skylight destroying Bruce, a batch of Alf’s cookies and one hell of a cold shower._

_Dick struggled as the greenery dangling him above the warehouse floor dipped into a slow bow, plunging him agonisingly slowly into the redhead’s reach, but apparently whatever fertiliser Ivy had used to grow her little monster had been extra strong, emphasis on the strong, because the vines would not budge._

_He blanched, internally screaming for a Bruce to come crashing through the glass at the last minute._

_Someone did come crashing through at the last minute, but it wasn’t Bruce._

_“Jay!” he happily cheered. “Heya big bro, I’d wave but,” a giggle tore apart the desert that was his throat. “I’m kinda tied up now.” The giggle climbed to a full on manic cackle at the joke.  The kind that would make certain white-faced, red mouthed –er’s proud._

_Jason cursed, a violent kick taking his frustrations out on whatever he’d been unlucky enough to land on. “Fuck idiot, wanna yell that a bit louder? I’m not sure all of Arkham heard you.”_

_“Jaaaaaay,  Jaybird.” He smashed his mouth into a pout as he rolled the name off his tongue, swilling the sound playfully to the sides of his mouth. “Didcha come to join the party? There’s this lady Jay. She’s real pruttty. Nice too. She was right here-” His brow scrunched, furrowed arches twisting his expression to a confused frown at the slip of orange gripped under beneath Jason’s heel. “Why’s she on the floor Jay? Is she a mean lady?”_

_“Real mean, Dickie." Worried tones turned accusing as the man raised his hands to his hips. "Do I even want to know why the fuck you’re here?”_

_“I tripped.” He chirped helpfully._

_Jason slapped the front of his helmet in a why the hell hadn’t I realised motion. “Of course Dick Grayson tripped and fell into the giant vegetable, how silly of me to even ask.” Biker jacket padded out shoulders slumped down to an exaggerated sigh. “Come on dumbass, let’s get blunder boy wonder down.”_

_“Yeah uh, about that.” Dick trailed off, cheeks flushing to a firetruck as he offered his saviour a sheepish grin. “Little help?”_

_Jason growled, muttering what sounded like “I just gotta do everything around here, don’t I?” beneath his breath as he stalked forward. Dick’s breath hiked, catching in his burnt out throat as he panicked, frantically screaming “Option B, Option B” when Jason reached into a pocket, drawing out the curved shape of a batarang, the hero’s heart thumping Wally West speeds in his chest as the youth hefted the ‘rang above a shoulder and threw._

_He yelped as the plant holding him shrieked and let go, he was falling, the ground rushing up far too quickly to possibly be good for him and oh god he was going to hit it and be nothing but bat jam, Bruce was going to kill him, bring him back to life then kill him all over again and then kill Jason –_

_He nervously unclenched his eyes, risking one lid as he realised that praise every deity he was still alive, his body very much unsplattered in its princess carry, sat in a chair of Jason's muscled arm and pressed deep against Jason’s chest._

_“Oh my sweet hero,” he cooed, curling his hands around Jason’s neck and stretching his head up to plant a soppy kiss into the helmet cheek._

_“Yuck," Beneath the helmet Dick was sure the boy was pulling a face, like a child forced to eat its vegetables. "Save it for the babes, kay asshole?”_

_He ignored Jason’s complaints, nuzzling his body further into the warmth, peppering the visor with sweet little kittenish kisses. “Mmm, love ya little bro.”_

_He whined as Jason’s free hand batted his face away, “Yeah yeah, I hate you too you little shithead.”  The man shrugged his body further out of reach, grumbling in raspy sour tones. “I’ll cuff Ivy, she’s out cold but all B’s bitches are always damn good at running. I’ve already alerted the comish and something tells me you’re not going to want to be seen tonight. Think you can walk?”_

_He ignored that too, moaning and pressing his face forward in search of the elusive heater. “Mhmm.”_

_Jason grunted a gravelly sigh.“Uh idiot, that’s your cue to get the fuck out my arms.”_

_Dick froze where he was, dignifiedly blushing a becoming shade of beetroot. “Oh.”_

_“Not even a language? You’re losing your touch, Grayson.” Jason scorned, the words cutting scathingly deep before his tone softened. “Jeez, you’re completely out of it, huh?”_

_He didn’t answer, instead giving a happy chirp as his nose pressed into the crook of collared neck. “Heya Jay. You’re hot,” he slurred in a thickened babble. He screeched as the fingers stretching over his ass suddenly dropped away and he tumbled out of the grip, hitting the ground with a pained wince. He growled, rubbing over his butt vehemently as he picked himself up to a poorly balanced stand, swaying gently in the evening breeze, before leaning an arm off the top of Jason’s head, the vigilante stooped over Ivy's unconscious form, snapping a pair of shiny hoops over the wrists pulled behind her back._

_“And I’m hot.” He continued, acting nonplussed as he brushed a speck of dust from the suit's shoulder. “Not in the arrogant way. Like I’m really really hot.” His fingers weakly scrabbled at the suit’s sides, pulling at the Kevlar as if hoping to rip the fabric off._

_“We should fuck.” The boy announced decidedly, tone serious. He stumbled, tripping over one foot in a move totally lacking all of the acrobat’s normal grace._

_“Oh shit, not the sex pollen again?” Jason swore as he dragged the doped up vigilante further into his side. “I swear she uses that so much it should be listed as a fucking fetish.” He clucked his tongue, quickly pulling the gloves away from their exploration of the suit’s neck, clenching the hand firmly in his own before the mind addled idiot electrocuted himself on his own defences._

_“Mmm, feels nice.” Dick purred breathily. Eyes blinked sluggishly out of time, pupils nearly entirely devoured by darkened lust._

_“Come on big boy,” Jason patted his back soothingly, leading a limping Dick back to his waiting motorbike. “Let’s get you home before Daddy Bats has a hernia.”_

Talon moaned, struggling his body back into a stand. He stumbled, the world still spinning, his limbs still maddeningly refusing to listen. A thousand images were hammering at his mind, each rudely invading his mentality, incessantly screaming to listen – refusing to go away, no matter how loudly he screamed right back at them.

Richard buckling to his knees, muscles revolting as hands stretched off the impossibly small platform to the too far drop, an agonised howl accompanying the sick twang as frayed edges finally surrendered and snapped.

Richard, pale and teary-eyed, morosely dragging heels over plush carpet, slowly stopping to stare up into the haggard reflected face numbly watching back from the polished screen of grandfather clock, fingers reaching hesitantly up to push the stopped hands back into life, only to leap back in shock as the entire thing shuddered and moved off the wall.  

Richard with his legs bent and hands gripping their hold, head thrown up for dizzying wind to whip combed locks into chaos, his mouth open in a victorious whoop as beside him a green-faced Jason looked over the edge of the train at the speeding-by city.

Richard squirrelled away on Jason’s bed, face buried to snuffle at muggy, unwashed covers as he moaned the boy’s name, voice thick and broken, over and over again.

Richard anxiously tugging at a tie lashed to his neck like a collar as the other hand rested restlessly on a scowling dark-haired youth’s shoulder, eyes sweeping skittishly over lavishly gold-paint pillars and dripped crystal chandeliers to the gathered army of stuffed Armani and Prada glowering back.

Richard in bed with the same dark-haired youth, face stretched to a proud mother’s smile, sparing a glance at the half-slumbering boy’s head, a hand falling to stroke over the ocean of midnight tangles nestled into his lap before he thumbed the book’s next page.

Richard holding the boy’s unresponsive body into his chest as he rambled “I’m so sorry Dami I’m so sorry” on repeat into the boy’s neck, hands jamming a rag of costume over a blossoming wound, the yellow material quickly sodden through to a sickly red, pained eyes unable to tear from the gash as they silently screamed not again.  

Richard breathing a heavy sigh of relief, blinking tears that couldn’t be seen away from his eyes as he crossed the room and knelt, snapping the zip-ties off the wrists of a sobbing youth strapped in a half broken chair, reverently whispering “Tim” as the boy fell forward, tearfully burying his head into the blue bird insignia.

Richard staring fearfully as across the room Jason emptied the contents of his glock into the criminal’s skull, a snarling Dami and exhausted Tim pressed between the pair, arms possessively clinging to lock around his waist, the two boys’ weight pinning him in place as he yearned, lurching forward against them, a scream lodged in his throat.

Dreams or memories they kept coming, each so clear and there until Talon couldn’t doubt any longer. They were memories.There was a voice in his head that wasn't him. Memories of a man that wasn’t him. A life that wasn’t his.

Talon stared at his face. Richard’s face. Amber eyes blinked baby blue specks away. Fists uncurled and rose to finger unsteadily over sunken dead cheeks, the hook of a button nose, two ears half-covered over by an uneven greasy darkly matted shag. A faint streak of sick purple slipped out from sharpened molars to lap ghost moisture from cracked dry lips.

Claws shattered the shop window, death shrieks erupting as the glass fractured to splintered webs then gave. Talon fled, the alarms blaring after it, chasing his heels into the night. Talen choked breath as he sprinted, images bubbling beneath his mind’s surface, threatening to pull him back under, the name **Jason** still burning through his being, igniting fires down to his very core.

…

“ _Well then, what now?”_ Dick-Not-Dick giggled, semi-translucent lips pulling up to accommodate a giggle as he easily kept pace with his hurriedly limping partner. “Shut up,” Jason grouched, darting through the opening and collapsing with a breathless sigh against the back of his front door. He glared at the mirage chilling, with its arms casually crossed and twinkling smile looking for all the world as if running for his life from a deadly murderer who just so happened to be the only relative who had ever even tolerated you was an everyday occurrence. Which yeah, for Jason it might well be.

He glowered at the wraith, though he knew the man – no matter how imaginary – had a point. What indeed? His not quite brother was a loopy assassin ten billion bats short of a belfry; fuck’s sake he didn’t even know his own name. And apparently Jason’s semi-there consciousness had started dreaming up hallucinations of the very same guy who not an hour before had been doing his damndest to see him dead.

Jason paused, breathing heavily.  

Dick. Dick Grayson was Talon. Dick Grayson didn’t know who he was. Dick Grayson didn’t know his own name.

Jason’s head hurt. He traded his scowl for a grimace, turning and quietly knocking his head back and forth off the door face. Things had just gotten extremely complicated. Not for the first time he was painfully grateful of Bruce’s long ongoing loner emo phase. It meant he didn’t have the added worry of one of the shoved so far up their asses they could see their own eye sockets Justice Leaguers butting their noses in unwanted. It was bad enough dealing with a young opportunistic Wally West zipping past Wayne defences in sudden ‘urgent’ visits to the manor to sneak snaps of training to the world web who would hungrily lap the stuff up when Dickiebirdie took up yoga, he didn’t even want to have to deal with whatever would happen if the young speedster found out his best bud had suddenly gone all Winter Soldier on their ass. And that would be nothing compared to what the American Boyscout would do.

It was a well-known fact that the cape community loved the first Boy Wonder, heck they were pretty much the equivalent of crazed stalker fangirls at this point. Half them had money on his love life and the other 50% were desperately hoping to tap that sweet Kevlar smooth godsend of bahooty. Except Bruce. But Jason doubted the guy knew about the betting circles dedicated solely to working out Nightwing’s sexual preferences. Bat Brats One and Two too, though both obsessive possessive assholes were probably hoping for a breakthrough in the gender department. Guy was called Dick for a reason.

And Jason? Well he had a fifty on it taking at least two averted apocalypses for the hero to even fess up to the lucky gal. Or guy. For fuck’s sake it had taken the idiot 2 seasons and 1 ehish movie to lock lips with the planet’s finest royal fugitive – and not in the way of exchanging spit as a walking, annoyingly overtalking dictionary.

Jason frowned. He couldn’t go to Bruce. Couldn’t go to Tim either because the boy would just nod his head, give a shocked gasp then run straight off and blab to Bats. And then Jason would have one hell hath no fury when you turn the favoured son into your amnesiac super soldier Batman pissing all over his ass. And Damian, Damian was never finding out about his beloved bro bro’s sudden bout of murder bug. Why? Because if Dickie couldn’t remember these gorgeous good looks then no way was he remembering the Demon’s spawn’s ugly mug. Which meant he’d try to kill him, and somehow Jason would probably get blamed for that too.

Which meant he wasn’t telling anyone. Which meant he was having to deal with his super-psycho deranged apparently now also immortally twenty five elder brother – the same one hired to kill him – alone. He wondered if anyone would bother showing up to Red Hood’s funeral.

 _“Don’t look now,”_ Not-Dick giggled. His mouth grew loopy as he grinned, drawing his head up and raising an am to go along with it. “ _But I think we got company.”_

Jason’s colour drained, his eyes slowly following the pointed finger up before widening. The swear rising in his throat died a painful murder as a flash of mustard yellow detached itself from the rafters.

“I’m going to separate that head from those shoulders, _Todd_.” Damian screeched venomously as he dropped from the ceiling, with the smouldering eyes and twitchy, blade-happy hands pushing a sharpened katanna in front of his chest looking like he was soon going to be following up on that promise. Had he been up there the whole time, just waiting for Jason to get back? Yeah that wasn’t at all creepy. “I should have known better to trust the words of a _murderer_.”

“Fuck’s sake asshole, I told you, I ain’t got anything to do with Dickhead’s disappearing act.” Jason snarled, fingers inching for his belt, only for a shudder to run across his spine as he realised the lack of batarangs. He’d emptied them all into Dick. His eyes cast wildly round, searching for anything that might be any good against a homicidal armed Damian Wayne.

“No?” Robin’s mouth twisted to a thin sneer as his hands fell to his back, drawing a bundle of black and blue stained crimson and throwing it to the ground where it landed by his feet. “Then explain why this was in your home.”

“Shit.” Jason breathed, his face blanching as he looked down, unable to tear his eyes from the bedraggled remnants of Nightwing’s Kevlar armour, bullet holes punched through the fabric and the bright blue insignia slashed to a scarlet half.

Jason yelped, eyes widening, as Damian howled an enraged shriek and charged.


	17. Who Killed The Dickiebird?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update today oh you lucky people. Why? Because I have an event on all day tomorrow and may not be able to update.

Jason was getting pretty sick of Robins trying to kill him. In no less than the space of an hour two sidekicks had been going all out for his blood – but hey, maybe if he phoned up Tim and confessed to having Nightwing’s bloodied up battle armour the boy would be more than a little pissed and make it three for three. Of course Jason had a lot less reservation about fighting Bat Brat than he did Goldie. He would almost go as far to say he almost liked Grayson (sure helped that the guy had broken who knows how much mind control to not gut his garters), and if you asked him the bitch baby even had it coming.

So he took absolutely no joy when the series of over-complicated feints worked, the kid ducking to the left expecting a righty only to get slugged by south paw. And no he definitely did not smile like the smuggest motherfucker when he felt, heard and saw the bone buckle and snap beneath his knuckles in Red Hood’s equivalent of winning the lottery. He may have kicked the downed sidekick in the head just a little harder than necessary - but he had been trying seconds before to take his head, so Jason figured one particularly vehement kick to his own skull to ensure his win qualified as fair dues.

And if anyone said he was practically radiating happiness as he dragged a near unconscious Damian Wayne, nose newly broken to the kitchen table, bent and pulled out handcuffs for the second time that night, pinning the boy’s wrists into them and around the table leg to clock the tools in for overtime shift, then they were lying. Trying to set him up. The jury, your honour, has been bribed and the only witness is bias.

Damian’s head lolled forward, the usual glower traded for a blissed out, possibly concussive stupor. Jason hadn’t exactly been gentle. But then neither had Damian. Jason’s hands dropped away from his burst cheek to roam over the boy’s ear, searching for the communicator, a short bingo escaping his busted up lips as he found what he’d been looking for. He pulled the small-as-a-thin-button out of the lobe, pushing it under a heel and slamming down, over and over, to crunch it to dust, skidding the boot to the side until all that was left of the tool were crumbling fragments and torn wires. Once happy it was effectively destroyed and he wouldn’t have a seeing-red Bruce smashing through the skylight to avenge his fallen sons, Jason swept the pieces off the floor so that the brat didn’t get any smart ideas of recycling them, carrying them in his hand to the line of kitchen cupboards and emptied them into the open-out bin. Then he did what he’d been wanting to do all night, ever since the assassin so determinedly after his ass made the family Christmas card list. Boiled the kettle and made coffee.

Red Hood’s kind of coffee. Which is to say, a little less Decaf and a lot more Scotch. He was halfway through his third – much needed – mug when worst contender for brother of the year came back to consciousness. Coming round in the only way he knew how – obnoxiously loud, excessively annoying and handing out death threats left and right like they were cheap dollar store candies and the date was October 31st.

“When I get out of this I’m going to leave you in so many pieces the Pit won’t even recognise you as human.” Damian screeched, his face quickly blistering red, yelling so loud Jason wished he’d had the genius to gag him.

“Did daddy never teach you not to break into people’s houses?” Jason growled, finishing the mug and slamming it down next to the equally empty liquor bottle. “Now then, we can talk like civil people, or I can go stuff a bedsheet in that mouth. No promises it’ll be a washed one either.”

Damian gave a rabid snarl, hucking up spit and throwing the glob as far as he could manage in reply.

Jason groaned, holding his head in his hands. “Dammit, I just washed that.”

Damian quivered, body barely holding together in its rage. “You lost any civil liberty when you murdered our brother.”

Jason groaned again, this time in exasperation. “When you gonna get it through your head kid?" He tapped fingers off his scalp as if to illustrate his point. "I didn’t kill Dickie.”

Damian’s lip curled.  “When you explain why _his_ bloody costume was in _your_ room.” He sneered down his nose.

“Oh for the love of!” Jason growled, stomping his feet as he made his way back to the crime scene to retrieve the uniform, stomping back. He crouched, flicking digits off the captive’s brow. “Someone hasn’t been paying attention in class, huh? Does this look like Red Hood’s work to you?” he thrust the costume in front of Damian’s face, a finger poking into the hole of the carved middle. “Since when were S’s ever my style?”

Damian gnashed his teeth, grinding them into his bottom lip, his expression dawning as slowly the lightbulb above his resting bitch face flicked on.

“ **Slade**.” The name came in a guttural snarl that had Jason smirking, safe in the knowledge that he wasn’t the only one who’d be receiving an impromptu calling call. “I should have killed that mercenary when I had the chance.”

“Bingo! A star!” Jason grinned, his features unaffected by the withering glare he got in return. “So if I untie you do you promise not to chew my head off now?”

“You are still to explain why it came to be in your abode.” The boy spoke slowly, a grin finding his lips as he realised Red Hood's painful dismemberment was still on the menu.

Jason grimaced, not exactly looking forward to explaining that he maybe possibly might have had the costume and not told for a very, very long time. “Santa Sladey thought it’d be a nice little stocking filler. Thought it’d go real well with the bul-”

He was interrupted by a loud rap on the door. Logic told him there was no way that was Batman. But logic tended to go out the window when some of your ex-family’s best buds were freaking speaky backwards magicians he was pretty sure could take over the world before a rang even came close if they wanted to.

Damian, of course, was his usual smirking asshole self. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asked pointedly.

Jason was pretty sure he may have been possessed by a rabid wolf for a moment and actually _snarled._ “In a minute!” He bellowed again as the hammering continued.

“Fuck dude I’m coming, alright?!” His voice grew louder and angrier to be heard over the less knocks and more rounds of ammunition fire. He snarled, pushing his body out of the crouch and into a stand to thunder towards the front door. His head swung back, eying the tied up Robin almost as a second thought.

“Stay here and don’t make a sound. I’m not against shooting the leg so you don’t run.”

“You will pay for this, Todd.” Damian glowered, flashing pearly canines that ground venomously together, probably imagining they were locked around Jason's own fleshy calf.

“Yeah I doubt that. Might wanna take a looksy at your position there kiddo.” He taunted, not above reaching to his breast pocket and throwing the cuff keys up in the air, before snatching them out of it and pocketing them again. He turned back to the door, forcing a veneer of calm to cover over his face.

“I don’t have any time to spare talking about our saviour the Batman, you can shove your surveys up your ass and no, I don’t have a damn interest in car insuranc-“ Jason trailed off, the lines of his squared shoulders slumping into a messy heap. “Shit.”

" _Jay."_

Talon raised his head off the step, staring at the Hood. _Jason_. Jason who seconds before had just thrown the door wide with a face of thunder, expression stormy, only for all anger to drain as they locked eyes. A thrill ran through him at the sight of the man, his fingers twitching, unsure whether to embrace or annihilate the person in front. Richard’s voice urged he run forward and touch, pull _Jay_ close into his chest, bury his face in the folds of sweet-smelling coconut shampoo and marshmallow conditioner, run mothering hands to tilt the head this way and that and examine the boy to confirm he was all right, whilst another, just as embodied vacant noise monotonously listed all thirty seven options available at the moment to successfully incapacitate his target.

“Please.” He stuttered, not knowing exactly what he was begging. His breathing tailed, body shortly following as he lurched, staggering forward a step before dropping like a lead balloon and passing out on the doorstep.

Jason almost had to collect his jaw off the ground. He blinked rapidly, once, twice, thrice, sucking in breath and letting it go. But still the scene was there. Dick Grayson, on the floor, writhing and begging his name like a fifteen year old Jason’s wet dream. He rubbed his palms off his jean shins, continuing to stare as he debated what to _do._

Somewhere inside Damian gave a blood curdling scream, the kind that promised Jason’s painful erasure from existence. He took one look at the body of their passed out, thought to be murdered brother, swore again and slammed the door closed behind him. He had about five minutes before an unsupervised Damian made it out of those cuffs and found a way of contacting Bruce. Give or take the time for the boy to find any of Jason’s communicators or if he set off any security, Jason had about fifteen minutes maximum before an on the warpath Bruce was on his way here and baying Red Hood’s blood.

He worked quickly, zip-tying ashen pale wrists over each other just in case the killer woke up extra forgetful then bent, gathering the heap of limbs off the steps and into his chest. It was too easy to haul the rolling body down to a conspicuous layer of taupe hidden not so well in the beginning of the alley. Dick was far too light, even with his Barry Allen levels of metabolism he still weighed more than this. Even through the costume Jason could feel the outlines of hardened bone and he had to wonder what they’d given the man to eat. It was hard imagining Dick not pigging off seconds up to fifteenths – no one had ever been so idiotic to try and put the boy on a diet.

He shook his head, resolving to ask when the man woke up. There was a time and place to find out exactly what had happened over the eight weeks, and neither of them were a thrown batarang’s distance from a raging out Damian. He gritted his teeth, freeing one hand from beneath the ass cradled in his arms to yank the cover off, gladly dumping Dick’s featherweight into the saddle where it heaved forward. He winced as the beginning of choppy shag slammed into the handlebars. If the crunch was anything to go by, that had hurt. A lot. Then again Dick was apparently now a regenerative meta who could shrug off bullets like they were Nerf darts, so maybe it hadn’t.

Jason growled to himself as he swung himself up into the saddle, pulling the comatose assassin close into his chest. Dick whimpered, even unconscious attempting to lean out of the contact and Jason felt a stab of anger for whoever had been his jailer. Dick Grayson was the man who’d go through hell just to get his daily good-back-from-wherever-you’d-just-stumbled-from hug. Dick Grayson was _not_ supposed to flinch at someone else’s touch. That anger only rose further as he was sure the assassin’s lips contorted to a silently screeched _no_. Another question to ask later.

Something proud swelled in him as he kicked the engine into gear, swerving the bike onto the road to weave between sluggish traffic. Dick hadn’t gone to Bruce or Tim or Damian. He had come to Jason. Some part of the stubborn git (and Jason knew first-hand just how stubborn that git could be) remembered him. Hadn’t wanted to kill him. He grinned. Something he would be able to eternally lord over both the cape and cowl wannabes.


	18. Out of a Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't normally speak do we? But ah well, I felt like I had to do this. This story's been getting a ton of support, and hits and kudos, hits and kudos I never expected considering this was just planning on being a short, five-chapter, 10,000 words or so thing. But then, when have I ever written anything short (hah!) And I just had to say a huge thank you, seriously thank you (well, that and a merry holidays)
> 
> This is just an early chapter to tide you all over because there's gonna be a short break till the next one for the holiday season. Yeah, yeah know, totally unfair me taking time out for a life that doesn't involve getting a chapter to you all, I'm a monster, the bane of humanity.
> 
> But enough of that, who knows, I might drop something on Christmas, it depends if the word vomit fairies visit again.
> 
> Either way, I'll definitely be seeing all of you around again at some point, enjoy!

It took all of five seconds before Jason was regretting his choices of transport. Also known as five seconds in and a particularly rough overtake sent the bike tipping to the left, Dick’s body slamming into his, hardened round of ass swelling as it ground against Jason’s lower. And he knew he was fucked. Only metaphorically of course, but if the boy woke up and asked for it, well who was Jason to say no? Who was anyone really? Refusing  _assets_  like that would be like saying no to driving the Batmobile. Both extremely stupid and not happening anytime soon in this or any other universe, not with that charge up engine Jason just knew could probably rival any boyscout dressed fresh in their tighty whities. Bruce never liked to be beat – especially not when it came to America’s sweetheart.

Oh he knew it was wrong – they were family, at least in one of their eyes – reason No. 4 of 109 for why it was. But he’d already tried (and failed) the get over Grayson thing when he lived in the Manor. When he was still alive. Now it was one of many truths about himself he tried to sweep under the rug and just not think about – huzzah for avoidance tactics. But if Dick asked then Jason wasn’t sure he’d even be able to wait for a bed, just pull the bike up into some sleazy mid-lit alley and fuck him on the saddle. Show him the person who would kick Grayson out of bed and give them a million dollars, because they damn well deserved it for having that much self-restraint.

Another swerve and an angered snarl as the  _Toyota_ in front pulled its snail pace up just so as to block them out had Dick’s body thrown up against him  _again_. Jason’s fingers tightened around the handle, little beads of sweat trickling until the bars were downright  _sodden_. Because who the fuck drives a damn Toyota in Gotham? Definitely not because the world’s greatest ass – as voted for six years in a row – was deliciously bouncing up and down solely for his viewing pleasure in an r-rated show most would sell their left kidney just to get the slightest glance at, the acrobat’s numerous assets jiggling like drunken jello on every pothole they took. And on Gotham’s near constantly destroyed by something or other roads, there were a lot of holes. He near lost it as a deeper than usual pit had the man jerked up and groaning in a sound so sinful it should be damn well banned. Jason’s forehead was soon wet with slick, his teeth working his bottom lip as he tried to remind himself that on the run from the goddammed Bat really wasn’t the time for making sweet, sexy love to an imaginary Dick Grayson.

On the eighth or so bump those baby impossibly not so blue blues perked open, all recognition gone and Jason knew he was fucked for an entirely different reason. With a gargled screech Talon – and in that moment Dick really was just Talon, no traces at all of the acrobat he had idolised or the trainer he had worked so hard for and wanted to please – slammed his head backward, bringing it into contact with Jason’s bike helmet (safety first kids). Jason winced as the helmet hummed with the impact, but held. And before he could launch any other assault Talon’s head snapped forward, wild eyes drawn to noise and nightlife, just in time to catch an eyeful of speeding past Humvee headlights. And god, Jason  _feels_ the scream that comes out of his throat.

“Just hold on, kay D?” he’s murmuring over and over, repeating it but a little softer every time a machine screeches past, flashing the hyper-sensitive assassin with more miniaturised balls of supernova. Tyres squeal poorly as he drags the bike into a layby, and the engine is hardly dead when already his fingers are at his throat, keying in code and he doesn’t hesitate, dragging the helmet off and dumping it over Dick’s head, but the wrong way. He laughs because with it on backwards you can’t see the man’s face so he looks like he has a giant red tomato for a head. The screeches quieten, the killer’s drawn tight as a bowstring muscles relaxing as he realises Jason’s not a threat but trying to help.

Dick’s awake now, and now longer having to fret over the boy falling off the seat without him there to catch him, Jason swaps their position, taking his seat at the front of the saddle with Dick now squashed on behind him. And when he falls against Jason’s back, shackled hands scooping a ring as wide as they can go to fit over his head and drop around his waist, Jason’s too busy celebrating still being alive to untangle him, or so he tells himself.

The rest of the journey – thankfully – passed with little event, the only excitement a small slither up his spine as the Bat signal exploded into view in the night sky.  Luckily Dick had long fallen asleep to the lull of the bike before he could see it. Despite the alert, which probably meant Bruce had his hands full with Bane or Kitty Litter, Jason didn’t take any chances, opting for quiet backwards way streets, speed dial never dropping past 90 as he took them out the city on the roads least likely to be destroyed by a steroid-addicted, ex-wrestler Mexican stereotype. Who knew, maybe the incomprehensible masked mumbler would finally break his Bat? Sure half the city would riot and the other half promptly break out into sixty or so world-domination schemes, but Jason would be down one hell of a pest problem. Silver linings and all that.

But all good things must come to an end and too soon, Jason was pulling them up into a sleazy motel parking lot. How sleazy? Enough that the guy behind the desk didn’t even bat an eye when Jason dragged his almost-brother up to the counter  _unconscious_ and  _handcuffed_  and  _blindfolded_ and demanded a room. He felt a roll of disgust flare as he pocketed the key, accompanied by the singing desire to draw his gun and fill the worker with however many bullets the clip had left. He didn’t bother to look back as he dragged a blissed out birdy away, though he did spare an almost disbelieving chuckle as he bridle carried Dick fucking Grayson over the threshold.  

He grimaced as he dropped the man onto the covers, the mattress barely dipping to accommodate for its new weight. He hooks fingers under Dick's jaw, gingerly working the helmet off and silently resting it on the nearby bedside cabinet. Their new quarters weren’t exactly Wayne Manor. The bed smelled of cheap booze, smoke and sex. A ratty rug that once could have been vibrant magenta and had definitely seen better days had been shoved centre of the floor to clash with the a limey emerald carpet. The walls were the same nauseous shade of green, bare except for one tacky frame up of some beach.  Instead of lollies or mints, a small wad of wrappers had been generously left on a battered around plastic tea tray. The usual sleazy one stop sex op stuff.

It was only when he’d worked out every possible exit, entry point and line of sight both in and out to the room, that he actually lets himself stop and breathe. He swayed drunkenly in place, the events of the night finally catching up as his head began to buzz, one Dick, dead to the world, doubling into two as his vision jarred. He lumbered over to the window and tore off a patch of curtain and bound it round his wrist, wrapping it hard enough to drag a snarl from his lips. He tested fingers, flexing each out of turn, teeth working lips as the pain heightened to a near nonsensible  **scream** but the binding held and each digit worked so maybe he’d be able to get through the night without a blood transfusion. Hopefully. Because he sure as hell wasn’t dragging Dick – unconscious or not – to a hospital. That would be the first place they’d look and if the Court had sent their little killer off against Hood then they were definitely planning on setting him up against Batman. And as fun to test the boundaries of control the Court of Psychos had (read, seeing whether Bruce was higher up on Dick’s kill list) Jason was in no mood for the world’s greatest douche to pin Amnesiac Murderer Grayson on his ass.

Jason settled back into an armchair that made his couch back in the Bludhaven hideout look positively brand new in comparison, snatching up the TV remote off the tray, making a point of ignoring the complementary condoms as he did so. He propped one wrist off the least stained arm rest and jabbed buttons for the most anti-Batman news network he knew. He snarled when that didn’t work, reacting in a perfectly healthy way and lobbing the remote as far and hard as he could, and with Jason’s built up muscle that was far and very. It hit the picture of insert-name beach with a crack loud enough to splinter the glass and knock the print off its poorly hammered nail, the glass shards skittering across the floor meaning he wouldn’t be stripping off to socks anytime soon. He glared down his boots at the fallen canvas which he’d pay for tomorrow – probably – before rising out of his seat and making his way to the bed, collapsing with a loud sigh on its foot.

He cursed when he realised he hadn’t specified two…which meant he’d be bunking with Dick. A slew of curses followed that epiphany, spoken with many promises of blowing the desk attendant's house up, with the desk attendant still in it. Yeah, totally healthy.

The only way he could describe sharing a bed with a practiced, possibly-brainwashed killer was stressful. Every time Dick moved Jason’s heart found a new speed to hammer against his ribs, every roll, toss and turn the man initiated Jason copied – only in the opposite direction, and soon he was perched on the very edge of the bed, body quivering to the effort of keeping itself upright on the tiny slither of mattress beneath it.

Everything changed of course, when Dick opened his mouth and started screaming. Not just screams – the oh no my leg’s broken or this guy has a knife and is trying to kill me kind, Jason had heard plenty of those before, but the something is seriously wrong how can humans even make that sort of noise, I’m dying kind. The type that came from the dreams where you died or watched your (almost) brother blown up in front of you.

Jason was crossing the bed and shaking Dick awake before he even had time to grasp that this maybe wasn’t his best idea. In fact it didn’t even crack his top 100 because very soon Jason was out of breath and gasping and holding his possibly broken, definitely bleeding again, arm as he ducked another of Talon’s swings.

“Whoa bro, calm down there, kay?”  He lifted his arms, palms-side up and stretched out fingers ever so slightly crinkled in at their tips, raising them slowly, like you would if you were trying to calm a spooked animal. He's just congratulating himself on being a successful psycho-whispering when Dick takes a ragged gasp - the kind you took when you were dragged just out of drowning in the ocean - and any bubble of happiness brought on by that small victory cheerily snap crackles and pops as the man's eyes lift to his own and Dick mumbles-

“Who are you?”

And great they were back to the I don’t know my own name, I don’t know yours either stage.          

“Would you believe me if I said we were related?” Jason laughed nervously as he eyed the hopefully out of reach nails. “Because we sorta are. Well, not strictly, given that B never formally adopted us and I never asked for one brother let alone three, and at the moment I’m pretty sure both Tim and Damian are wanting to kill me, then there’s the whole is Hood a Bat part of the deal and-“

“ _Jay_.” Dick interrupted, saying the name like it was a prayer and he needed saving from Hell. Which, looking at the man, he could well have been.  Not that Jason looked any better.

“And you know who I am. Good.” And it was. Just plain old hunky dory. Except. Jason held his breath. “Do you know who you are?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” It whooshed out, all in a rush. “That’s uh, not so good.” And it wasn’t. Not at all. Because that meant Jason was here, talking to a doped-up, normally emotionless assassin, rather than the dopy acrobat who drew the line at murder and went green just at the mention of shot-out kneecaps. Jason grimaced, trying to pretend that he wasn’t desperately missing that guy.  

Tiger’s eyes, dangerous, murderous, _beautiful_ (And if Jason just thought that he knows now he’s definitely a little past sanity) lock with his, hooded in suspicion. “Who am I?”

Jason’s good arm scratched the scruff of his neck. “Uh, you’re a cape.”

Talon raised one eyebrow. Still Talon. Not Dick. Dick didn’t have that soulless stare that just drilled right through him. Dick didn’t stand perfectly still. Dick didn’t look at Jason like he was the main course for a half-starved assassin’s all you can eat.

“No, I’m serious. You were the captain of the Orphans For a Better Gotham Squad. Ran round with an ass coated in Kevlar dressed as a bird. So y’know, not much has changed there.” He chuckles, a wince coming with it because the laugh sounds so fake and forced it’s painful.

“What are we doing here?” Dick interrupts his nervous laugh.

“Running. From the Court, the people who made you this way.”  _And Bruce_. He added silently. Because he had neither the patience nor the energy to sit the assassin down and tell him the big bad Bat of Gotham is actually dear old daddy.

The killer is silent for a beat, and Jason’s so sure he’s about to bring Bruce into this, ask where’s Batman, Batman can make this all go away in his childish hero worshipping grin, but instead when he speaks there’s no smile and it’s a far too serious, “What now?”

Jason opened his mouth, about to scream that he doesn’t know – he’s not Tim, he’s the loose cannon, the trigger happy one who, fuck's sake  **died**  and even now normally adds too much explosive and ends up almost blowing himself up half the time, why’s he the one expected to come up with a damn plan?! When he thinks of the picked clean ribcage so etched into skin he can practically draw a fully narrated diagram of the man’s entire bone structure, and has an idea.

 “C’mon.” He gave a wide, dog-eared grin (the kind his younger self had always wore when he was just about to blow something up or drop laxatives into the punch at one of Bruce’s fancy schmancy gala dinners) as he snapped up the menu from the tray and wafted it under the killer’s eyes. “Let’s order room service.”

They order four of everything on the menu. Why four? Because Dick’s too malnourished to not have his own singular meals and three is an awkward number. So four of thirty-six plates of everything from cheap cheese-dried nachos to bloodied, half-raw strips of beef served up with dauphinoise and trimmings it is. Jason feels a twinge of sympathy for the motel cook, but then he bites in and the ordered raw steak’s been overdone to a near crisp and suddenly he doesn’t feel quite so bad about slipping out the room without paying the eye-wateringly high bill.  

And when Dick’s done, one hand hovering over his raised belly and the other still shoved into a fruit bowl filled half up with tacky popcorn kernels, Jason gets up and fiddles round with the tv until it works. Dick’s face grows comically wide, scooting up off the bed and swooping to press his nose into the screen like he’s about to jump through it, and Jason feels a shard of sadness, wondering as he stares at those blown-to-wonder cat’s eyes what else he’s been made to forget.

“Not so close.” He scolded softly, gently tugging the twenty-five year old acting more like the two o’s been lopped away off by the arm. He plumps up pillows, propping them against the headboard, then sits Dick down into them. The man flinches, but stiffly allows Jason to slide in and join him. He gathers the covers up to their neck, now working tv remote clutched in one hand, bowl of popcorn he’d separated from Dick held in between the two of them like a peace offering, and then they watch movies.

The motel isn’t exactly kid-friendly but it’s surprising how many family flicks the store has, and Jason isn’t ashamed to admit he knows most of Dick’s favourites. They cycle through the entire Disney classics selection, and apparently being turned into a ruthless killing robot hasn’t changed Dick’s love of musicals none because he’s grinning like a madman all the way through the Be Our Guest number. Jason’s pretty sure he even saw a claw tapping away to the rhythm at one point. Once all the princess movies are down (what a shame), they burn through the list of Dick Grayson-recommended chick flicks. Which is how Jason finds himself subjected through Lindsay Lohan’s entire career, again. After that it’s onto the film that always caused the most trouble whenever Dick suggested it: The Avengers (Bruce had always hated it, thinking Tony Stark an up his ass playboy prick, Dick had always loved it, saying that the two may well as have been twins, Bruce’s only superpower being rich himself, Tim would blank and look away while Damian would always perk considerably up at the removing an eyeball museum scene and Jason, when he’d been dragged to the Manor by an insistent Dick for Family Unfun Time, just sat quietly through the squabbling and looked forward to the scenes where Hulk smashed everything in sight).

When that’s done they move onto comedies and to Jason’s inner shuddering’s, the sappy romances. By the end of their marathon Dick’s making weird snuffling sounds he guesses is as close to crying as an unfeeling, partly brainwashed murderer is going to get, Jason meshed into his side, an arm shackling him into a hold that he isn’t going to even try and get out of because there’s no way he’s voluntarily going to provoke a fight with said unfeeling, partly brainwashed murderer.  He guessed the man must have fallen asleep holding him, but he didn't dare move, afraid of startling the killer's attack instincts into action. He sighed to the otherwise empty room, closing his eyes and settling his body deeper into Dick's chest, resigning his body to the fate of teddy bear. It would be a long night, he may as well make it as comfortable as he could, right? And no one would ever know the glitter of moisture that escaped his eye; still there from where it burst during the final scene of Marley and Me, was a tear.


	19. Before The Storm

It was afternoon when he woke up and it’s never afternoon when he wakes up but his stupid alarm had failed to go off and the even stupider idiot who’d been so sleep deprived he’d forgotten to set it had slept right through the imaginary tripwire. Jason groaned something unintelligent and flipped over, small spots of crimson flushing his cheeks as he narrowly avoided head-butting a dead to the world Dick. The man had bedhead and a half, the ebony pitch mushed up into a bird’s nest that said a defiant suck it to gravity and stuck up as if shocked, straggles of ends falling over blissed out lids with a certain chaotic fever. The shag was a testament to the length of Dick’s imprisonment; the usual slicked, cutback style now reached well past his ears, practically brushing off his shoulders. The man was in much need of a haircut and shave, a firm layer of stubble pecking the area around his chin. The skin was noticeably greyer, the Californian tan painted over to a sickly mottle grey, the colour change only further accentuating the plush, pink lips stapled above that commanding jawline.

Plush, pink lips Jason’s mouth was roughly half an inch away from.

He kicked himself for blushing and bolted up, wrestling the arm practically glued to his waist off as he toppled out the covers. Long string of swears rushed off his tongue as he stripped off the multitude of blankets they’d ended up cocooned in. The swears only got louder as one foot stomped into the centre of a fruit bowl left half empty beside the bed from last night. He immediately yanked it back out, growling more unpleasantries as he flopped back onto the mattress, face thunderous and stewing in rage as he swept one leg over his knee to pluck crumbling Cheetos off his sole.

He picked his helmet off the cabinet, sitting it in his lap for a moment before forcing a breath and pulling it over his head. He chuckled lightly when his eyes met the red blip angrily flashing away in his sight’s corner, telling him he had sixteen missed calls and thirty two voicemails. He laughed, harder and harder until he’s laughing so hard one hand has to clamp over his stomach just to keep his organs in place as he played them, Tim and Damian and then Bruce’s voice crackling through the insides of his helmet. The grin streaking across his lips grew wider and wider as tones got darker and threats leapt from answer your phone or no more Alfred SOS bakery bundles to if you don’t pick up right this moment I’m going to throw you in a sack with a rabid wolverine and then throw whatever’s left in the bay (the last one being a furious Damian spitting and snarling, shrugging Tim off the line to a startled  _hey_! and sounding just about rabid himself).

That little reminder is enough for him to remember that they’re not on some relaxing holiday taking some (well deserved) time off, they’re being hunted and Damian, when he next sees him is going to want to follow up on every single destroy Red Hood promise he’s ever made. Which is a lot. And when Sleeping Beauty next to him gets their identity revealed, Bruce might even let him. Jason’s up and shaking the lump, pleading with the dead weight to please get up before he’s forced to shoot at a kneecap, and when the man eventually rises it’s in a way that’s so Dick Grayson (with an impossibly wide yawn snuffling at his lips as he stretches limbs awake like a giant humanoid cat before uncurling, slowly and sluggishly enough to have Jason breaking out in nervous hives because Dick had never been and never would be a morning person) that Jason couldn’t help but stutter. He recovered quickly and soon enough he was dragging a half awake assassin out of the covers, tugging at an arm so hard the man toppled forward, falling right into his chest. And Dick, half-asleep and obviously starved of human attention because why else would he be hugging Jason of all people? Gave a kittenish mewl and burrowed his body deeper into the warmth of Jason’s.

If it was anyone else Jason would have angrily shoved them off, preferably with the end of a polished _eagle_ but he wasn’t about to refuse an unhinged trained assassin who was still experiencing some minor/major temper management issues. Dick wasn’t a walking time bomb; he was a freaking nuclear warhead. And Jason was not about to push that big red shiny button. So he stiffened into the hold and awkwardly patted the killer’s back as arms crept up, allowing them to wrap his waist. To which the vigilante happily cooed and tightened his grip, leaving Jason feeling as if he’d just been pulled into the death grip of an anaconda.

“Dick,” he huffed, wheezing angrily as all air fled his lungs. “Can’t….breathe…”

“Oh, sorry Jay.” The grip immediately lessened and Jason gasped, chugging at life greedily. A spatter of red dotted Dick’s cheeks as he blushed, burying his face into the space of Jason’s neck. 

“It’s okay.” Jason lied, because it wasn’t, because Dick Grayson wasn't a murderer and the burning bundle of supernova-hot skin was now the same temperature as some refrigerator jacked up to maximum freeze and what part of any of that was even the slightest part okay? But he wasn’t about to tell any of that to Dick so he just lied and awkwardly pulled his fingers through the carpet of greasy night packed under his chin.

“Missed this.” The man sleepily mumbled into the skin. “Missed you.”

Jason froze. Another time, another Dick and the response would have been almost secondary.  _Yeah right, asshole, because I didn't miss you_. But now he found himself struggling for words, rooted to the spot. Eventually he found them, voice hoarse and choked raw in emotion as he patted Dick's head and half-whispered, "Yeah, I missed you too."

Right now, Dick didn't need Asshole Red Hood. He needed Jason Todd, and if that would keep Dick sane, then like Hell was Jason not going to give it to him.

Dick whined, shivering in his place and Jason knew he wanted to stay like that a little or a lot longer, that the Court probably hadn’t been too big on cuddles, but he also knew it was 13:58, nearly 2pm and they hadn’t moved, had stayed at the same motel for nearly three days’ straight, pigging out on room service and watching movies and convincing Dick he was still human and Jason’s mind was yelling _stupid stupid stupid_ in his ears.

So after a moment he pulled away, just kept going, ploughing on despite the pang of regret stewing up in his stomach that didn’t go away even when he dragged the man out the door, down the iced-up death traps of steps to the bike waiting in the lot below, jamming the helmet onto Dick's head and riding them off into a grimy midday sun like they were some overly cheesy 80s romcom couple.

…

It wasn’t Bruce that caught them and Jason hadn’t decided yet whether that was a good or bad thing. He decided pretty quickly after the first bullet popped off, skimming right past to the sharp whistle of air, narrowly missing the back of his head as it exploded into the back window of the car in front.  Soon Jason’s breath was coming out hot and heavy, Dick shoved flush against him as he manoeuvred the bike (same bike, same instantly recognisable design and unchanged license plate and again he’d been stupid stupid stupid) away as fast and far as he can from the briefest flash of black orange suit. But it was nearly 3pm and Dick was now wide awake, head jerking up to the sound of bullets he couldn’t see as the bike swerved and bucked them and Slade Wilson was not going to give up that easily.

The next pop of bullet went off, spraying the ground where the bike had been only seconds before and Jason realised – weakly and in growing horror – that the mercenary was firing to kill, that he didn’t care if he offed Jason and he didn’t even need to shoot extra-carefully to still get his bird breathing because Dick was a super-healing, bullet-shrugging-off machine.  He knew it but he still hated it when Dick moved his body further, bulking his back and shoulders up as far as they can go to take the ammo that should have hit _his_ scruff of neck, _his_ back, _his_ shoulders.

The bike squealed, pitching as he threw it to the left, tyres screeching indignantly against tarmac as they slipped over surface, a steady spray of pops now dogging their trail. He urges the bike up gears, almost yelling at it to go faster as they accelerate, fast but not fast enough to miss the next metal chip lodged into Dick’s waist. He felt the man tremble, form shudder and breath hitch as the pain registered, a tiny squeak escaping his lips all of the scream that it rightfully should have been. It’s not an agonised howl of terror but it’s still enough to lodge a spear in Jason’s heart and twist.

They lost Deathstroke in traffic, their tiny bike easing out of distance, slipping through the sort of gaps the hulking beetle-black Range Rover trying to follow can’t. At least Jason hoped that they lost him, prayed that the steady line of crawling vehicles behind them will be enough to buy them some time, at least for a little while because he wasn’t going to try and fool himself into thinking that traffic congestion would be enough to beat the Terminator, would buy them anything past a day.  

It’s about an hour after the confrontation when Jason’s belly grumbled over the noise of the engine, Dick’s own soon joining in. The man was clearly hungry but he didn’t say anything, just stayed silently wrapped around Jason’s body like some clingy, sentient seatbelt and again Jason felt a stab of mourning for the other Dick, the Dick who would loudly announce that he was still starving five minutes after a sixty-something course meal and bound off towards the kitchen to look for seventieths.  

It’s surreal, standing in a line in a grimy fastfood diner with Dick’s arm possessively draped over his waist as next to them haggard-faced parents go red in the face trying to pull apart squabbling infants. He shook his head to himself, then plastered a cheesy grin over the grimace as the exhausted worker met his eyes, a silent plea to please not be difficult passing between them. He was breathless as he ordered two lots of fries and burgers, had to force the words out as Dick clung closer, sticking like a limpet to his side as a pigtailed girl ran too close, the man whitening as fuzzy cowgirl boots narrowly missed his toes. He paid with two fivers, slapped the notes down and grabbed the bags off the counter, mumbling a hurried thanks as he hustled a near catatonic Dick through the chaos of bratty five year olds and half broken out foodfights over to an empty table abandoned in the corner.  

Dick was hesitant at first, staring at the tray until Jason snapped and yanked a fry out of his dish, thrusting it into his lips. After that he ate like a starved man, cramming fry after fry down his throat and wolfing the burger down after pulling it apart to check for what? – poison? (Sure the place probably wouldn’t pass basic Health and Safety but he’s pretty sure they don’t sell McArsenics). Jason tried to make conversation but somehow he could never get past the nervous cough and anxious “er, so…” that had become his go to opener. Dick finished his burger and stared wistfully at Jason’s, kicked puppy eyes burning into his soul until he eventually caved and with an exasperated sigh held his food out over the table. Dick moved impossibly fast, snatching them away with a victorious squawk and holding them into his chest, glaring at Jason and turning away further out of reach whenever Jason made any sort of movement.

He finished those too, practically inhaling the entire meal as fingers clawed restlessly over his eyes. Jason noticed he hadn’t left them alone, hadn’t even looked up once from the ground since they’d entered the diner and he’d been forced to take the biker helmet blindfold off the man’s head.  He didn’t stop pawing over them either, not until Jason grabbed a pair of shades off the belt of the man pulled up in the seat behind them; a pig faced tourist stuffed into the purpled monstrosity of a Hawaiian shirt and so overweight Jason was surprised he hadn’t broken the plastic chair he’d somehow managed to squash the lower parts of his stomach into.

It wasn’t the first time he’d stolen and it was easy to slip back into the habit. One, two, three, and he toppled over a shoelace, colliding headfirst with the guy as he made it out of his seat. His fingers slide over the leather, deep breath, straight face, and he clambered up, mumbled an apology for his clumsiness and slipped away. When the tourist goes for his Ray Bans he finds the belt empty, whips his head around with a snarl as he scans the room but Jason’s already long gone, disappeared into the crowd, herding Dick along with him, the glasses tucked away up the inside of his sleeve.

“Here,” he muttered when they’re out of sight, pulling Dick up against the wall as he passed his trophy over. “Should help with the lights.”

Dick gave a happy chirp that Jason took as a thank you, an excited squeak erupting as he slipped the glasses over his nose, a grin full of teeth yanking his lips apart as the head finally raises off the floor, staring right through him before it passed onto the ceiling. The hug is unexpected but Jason allowed it, let the hands wrap around his waist and tug him in, Dick’s breath cold as it puffed against the shell of his ear.

He lets it last, counted to ten Mississippi before he tapped an arm holding him and mumbled a “let’s go.” His stomach fluttered something fierce as he pulled Dick back to mix into the sea of people, unseen, purposefully avoiding the gaze of all cameras as they slipped out the automatic doors. They’ve already spent too much time here to be safe, need to move on. Both of them know how to be ghosts but unlike the police, Wilson knew how to spot a shadow.  He needed to get Dick out of sight, and swap out the bike. Dick gripped his hand a little tighter as they stepped into the sun and Jason’s stomach did the weird somersault flip thing again. He squeezed the hand back, raking the other one once through his bangs before shovelling it into his jacket pocket. New plates, new design, new car, Jason decided grimly. And fast. He didn’t want a well-trained assassin to go with that possible coming down indigestion.   

…

“8000.”

Jason’s nails inched down and back over the insides of his palm, the need for a cigarette or at least a half decent coffee hammered all the more home as he glared at the greased up overalls leaned casually up against the windows of a busted up corvette, a shark grin decorating their lips occasionally sliding up to yellowed dentals lazily munching bright pink gum.

“7500.” He growled, crescents sinking through his skin deep enough to leave angry welted red indents.

Grey-stained hands rose off the greasy rag stashed to her hip to push a strand of clipped blonde bangs out of narrowed blues. “You don’t look a day past 20, he,” A blackened thumb jabbed towards the half-conscious Dick, ashen faced and a metre away, uneasily leaned in the saddle of Jason’s precious darling. “Looks like hell and you’re wanting instant sale and no papers.”

“7800 for the car.” Jason bit out. “3500 for the bike. Last offer.”

“8000 for the car, 3000 the bike. Or no deal. Way I see it,” She purred, popping the bubble out of her mouth with an obnoxiously loud smack of lips. “You’re in deep shit. Maybe trigger happy pappy found out about your fuck buddy or you took some money you shouldn’t have from some people you don’t wanna mess over. Either way, you got somewhere to go, real far away and real damn fast.”

And Jason couldn’t exactly argue with that so with a pang of loss he dropped the keys into her hands and handed out a wad of notes into her greedily extended hand.

Swapping his bike (his baby, the love of his life) for a busted up old Jeep Corvette hurts. There’s another sting of regret when Dick climbed into the passenger seat, suddenly very obviously nearly a metre from Jason but its forgotten when he kicked dead gears into life and Dick rolled down the window and shoved his head out, mouth hanging open and tongue lolling the side of his lips, wind fanning up the bird’s nest of shag as a glazed expression fell over his features. For the first time since Jason had found him he actually looked happy and when Jason eventually relented to the voice niggling that that’s dangerous and oh so definitely going to get them caught by a trigger-happy Slade Wilson and reluctantly pulled the boy back into the interior, there’s a blissed out reverie behind the Ray Bans and for the first time that dopey old Dick Grayson grin **™** makes a return. And Jason missed it so much he found himself unable to stop from grinning along with him.

Dick’s grin grew wider as he caught Jason’s smile, stretching so far from ear to ear that Jason wouldn’t be surprised if it just kept going, past his ears and into space, unable to be contained by the man’s face. He gets a sudden flash of inspiration and reaches for the radio dial, happily surprised to find it working as music starts to flood the space, not high enough to overload Dick’s hearing but loud enough for Jason to still make out the words.

By some stars-aligned coincidence it’s a song he knows, one that Dick used to drag him up to the mike in karaoke bar nights and croon out tone deaf with back when he was younger, when Bruce was still his faultless hero and Dick something like family but much more than a brother, before he died and everything hit the fan and went to shit. He knew the words and he sang along – badly – with Dick joining in on the little parts of the chorus that he’d manged to pick up towards the end.

“Reach! For the stars!” Jason hooted, his entire body enthusiastically throwing itself into the music as beside him Dick shuffled his weight in his seat and awkwardly moved an arm in what may have been a poor imitation of other Dick’s entire choreographed, seventy-four stages dance sequence.

“Reach….for….stars,” Dick mumbled quietly, one foot quietly tapping away out of time to the beat.

“Climb every mountain higher!” 

“…mountain higher,”

“Reach! For the stars!” Jason hollered, Dick a poor echo after.

“For… the stars,”

“Follow your heart’s desire.”

“Follow….desire,”

“And when that rainbow's shining over yoooooooou!”

“….over ….you.”

“That’s when your dreams will all come truuuuuuuue!”

“Dreams…come, true.”

The next song came on and they sang along to that too, same for the one after, Jason risking one hand off the wheel for an imaginary air guitar solo. By the sixth Jason’s voice is hoarse from banging out high notes and Dick is falling asleep in his seat, raybans slipping down the brink of his nose as his head lolled forward, exhausted after a day spent in the sunlight. Jason eased the corvette into a layby, extracting his arms out his jacket sleeves when the engine’s dead. He tugged it past the belt, leaning over to arrange it over Dick’s chest and up to his neck, then returns his focus to the wheel, occasionally stealing a glance over at the man who looked so innocent in his sleep, with his head pressed up against the window as a pillow and Jason’s jacket a warm fuzzy blanket around his shoulders.

With the eyes squeezed shut Jason could almost trick himself into believing that they’ll still be the brightest blue when they open, that the paled ghost grey skin was just a trick of sleep-deprived eyes in the glimmer of moonlight. But despite the changes in appearance and mind, the man beside him is still Dick, still the same puppy-gazed man who sings bad karaoke and steals seconds, inhaling food rather than eating it like a civilised human being. Jason grinned, taking another quick glance at the dozing idiot next to him. Dick recognised Jason; he hadn’t even tried to kill him once today. And for the first time in a long time, he began to think maybe everything would turn out okay.


	20. Red Robin Red Breast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Hope everyone had a lovely holiday, updates go back to regular schedule next week.

 Jason Todd and his bloody big fat stupid mouth.

For the first three days everything was just peachy. Sure, maybe Dick tried to kill him once or twice, or thrice, or thirteen times, but what family didn’t indulge in the odd attempted murder every now and then?

Well okay, maybe things weren’t just peachy. Maybe they were kind of peary and Jason was just being a big hub of goody-goody positivity – blindness – and avoidance techniques. Their situation wasn’t exactly ideal after all. On the run from Bruce and Slade, slogging it through days spent pretty much just driving, paranoid and next to a landmine that could blow at any moment. Dick was in dire need of a haircut and change of clothes, refusing to take off the Court’s costume, and Jason hadn’t dared trying to take it from him. Unfortunately, dried blood and bullet holes weren’t exactly the most inconspicuous and most of their pitstops ended with an impromptu dash through some kitchen backdoor, usually pursued by a good fifteen security guards which did wonders for his health condition.

Despite their new daily routine: drive, grab food (run), drive, grab food (run), drive, grab food (run), drive until sleep deprivation kicked in, stop, sleep, rinse, repeat, there were highlights. Buying up the entire candy section of a Stuckey's and watching Dick retry every cause of heart attack known to man, having to hold his belly in his hands from laughing too hard as the amnesiac suspiciously examined the first sweet, his eyes going comically wide as the gummy bear passed inspection and he cautiously nibbled off the head, the flavour hitting to a long-drawn moan of ecstasy.

Graduating him up from the Abba and S Club of 80s, 90s pop and onto Jason’s own personal favourite, classic rock. And none of that newfangled shit. Osbourne, The Stones, Guns n' Roses. The good stuff. Teaching him to use the dashboard as a makeshift drum kit as Jason jammed out with air guitar, explaining snares and hi-hats before mindlessly ranting off about sell outs and modern ‘rock’.

“Used to be the life of music, y’know? Used to save em too. And I mean really save em. Rock was _inspirational_. A _rebellion_. Showed us we’re all human inside, got something to fight for.” He complained over the singer’s gruff tone. “Now it’s all shaking asses and sex. What’s the meaningful message in that?” 

Dick watched him, silently listening and eyes still a soft glow behind their tinted windows.

And then the song changed and Jason was swooning his body left into Dick’s, neck craned and head raised to the heavens as he crooned about 1989, short thoughts and long hair, Dick nervously tapping out thudded beats with his fingers in time beside him.

The pure, undulated joy in Dick’s face, the slightest smile that Jason knew may as well have been a full blown grin slowly blistering across his lips when Jason unannouncedly stopped the car on a sleepy backroad in the middle of nowhere, pulled him out onto the sand and spread the map out over the bonnet, jammed his finger onto a random square and declared that they could go anywhere.

Television, ice cream, music, the sea, the sky, the desert. Jason had an entire world to show him all over again. And he was loving mostly every minute of it.

Mostly every minute of it. Because there were some moments that he absolutely hated.

He hated that the man he swore was half-cat in his determination to leech affection off others would sometimes freeze up completely whenever their hands brushed on accident.

He hated that sometimes Dick would sleep like the dead, so still his body trembled from the effort of keeping all the muscle in place, as if even unconscious he was absolutely petrified to move. And that other times he’d run rivers of sweat down his face and thrash around so hard Jason almost drove them off the road.

He hated that sometimes Dick wouldn’t answer, would just keep staring blankly out the window and only look up when Jason finally swallowed down the nausea building a home in his throat and ground out the name Talon.

He hated that the constant, never-shut-up-not-even-if-you-gagged-him stream of chatter and bad puns had receded into cold silence and croaked one word answers. Before, if Jason had asked how Dick’s day had been he would have gotten a four-page essay with footnotes. Now he’d be lucky to get anything past a sentence.

He hated that at times Dick wouldn’t look at him but look through him, that sometimes those amber eyes glassed over and he knew Dick was in a place he couldn’t reach.

And there were incidents. Of course there were incidents. Speed cameras. Car dealerships that weren’t too happy to sell to two dead guys walking. Dick almost jumping for an old guy. Dick almost jumping for a loved-up couple.  Dick jumping a store clerk. Dick almost jumping for a Chihuahua – a ratty little thing that looked like it belonged more in the sewers than the glitter-ridden pink alligator skin Gucci tote hanging off the arm of an equally fake blonde bimbo – after it growled at him in line for Jason Todd’s Reintroduction to Life of the Day, nachos with sweet chilli dip.

Losing Dick in a mob of schoolkids. One moment the man was there, glued to his waist in their usual routine, then in a wave of acne and poor role model choice, he was gone. Jason certainly wasn’t smiling when he detached the AWOL assassin off the twelve year old, blushing, bright-eyed and more importantly _breathing_ , tugging at his leg and begging the ‘pretty vampire to pretty please kiss me’. But he did find a slow grin creeping up his lips hours later, as he settled down next to his companion for the night. With the freakishly pale skin, steampunk-style full body suit and black tint sunglasses, Dick did look awfully like a vampire. The insanely dumb but unfairly hot walking glitterball kind.

Jason shook his head sadly to himself as Dick gave a sleepy moan and snuggled closer; closing the gap between their bodies in the blanket the two of them were sharing in their fifth car’s backseat. He closed his eyes, listening to his own breath and lack of the other’s. Trying to pretend that he wasn’t blushing as Dick’s head fell tipsily onto his shoulder. He raised a hand – a hand that two months ago would have had no mercy in shoving the dozing boy off – but now found it lowering gently onto the unruly mop and resting there, twirling little ends into hangman’s nooses at his fingers’ ends. He huffed. When had life gotten so goddam complicated?

Complicated. That was probably the best way to put it. And Dick was, extraordinarily so. One big, messy ball of complication that he really should just follow self-preservation instincts and run screaming from. But he just couldn’t bring himself to. So, even knowing that at that very moment his gravestone was surely being written, the finishing touches of _here lies Jason Todd, Badass, Kickass, Jackass_ being made for a second time, he huffed and looped more nooses out of Dick’s hair, picturing his body limply dangling from every one of them.

…

It was the fourth day that everything went to shit and Jason regretted ever opening his big dumb gob.  They were getting low on everything, fuel, cash, food and he only had so many secret identities with him to pay for it all. He’d put it off long enough, they needed to stop at one of his places and stock up.

It was supposed to be quick. In out, grab a suitcase of clothes and wallets with enough fake ids to get them through five states. But karma had obviously decided to collect debt on that one guy left that it hadn’t yet already, the one that he’d left for dead in some back alley, two bullet holes through their thighs and newly handicapped, after finding them with their dick out over a drugged up floozy, because it didn’t even let him get in through the front door. He parked their latest set of wheels – a lovely little Ford Ranger that had survived two of Dick’s nightmares and one Slade Chase up the drive, glanced up and swore. Because bloody fucking Tim was sitting on the doorstep.

“Stay here and stay out of sight.” Jason growled, killing the engine and sliding out the door, the frame slamming behind him as Dick wormed out of his seat and pressed his body down under the dashboard.

Tim looked annoyingly smug as he approached, soles crunching up gravel with the kind of violent viciousness anyone with any sort of sense would be running crying for mommy from, or at least have the sanity to look scared. Of course, not Tim. Not Timothy fucking Drake who beamed, pleased as punch like he’d just solved some extra hard equation and sat up a little straighter on his step.

“Speed cameras spotted you heading South.”  

Of course they did.

“With a passenger.”

Jason froze, the colour draining from his face, a barrage of questions running past his ears. How much did they know? Had they figured it all out yet? Did they know that the black sheep was suddenly buddied up to the missing golden child? His eyes jumped to the rooftop, his mind setting the slightest bit at ease when he didn’t spot a dark, brooding shadow loomed to look down over the doormat. So they knew he was travelling with someone but not who they were. Probably thought it was some rich patsy that he was milking cash off of. That was good. That meant he could still get out without the Bat finding out about his new bff's actual identity.

Confirming his suspicions, Tim glanced curiously at the car. “Who’s the hostage?”

“No one.” Jason snapped cagily.

“No one’s no one.” The Robin smirked, pleased to have found some point of annoyance. “But they’re not dead yet so I guess they’re still useful to you. Swapping cars, grabbing supplies? You’re running, Jay.”

“Don’t call me that.” Jason snarled, glowering.

Only he got to call him that. And even then Jason didn’t know whether to be pissed off or pleased about it. All areas of Dick Grayson were complicated at the moment.

“You’re skirting all the major cities associated with any sort of hero." Tim observed softly. "You don’t want capes.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

Jason lashed out, working hard not to roll his eyes, but if Tim was offended, he didn’t show it, a puppyish grin still slapped across his lips as he rambled straight into an I’m so proud of me speech. “I figured you’d have to come here. One person can make it a week on the run, but two? You need clothes and weapons and cash. I ran place names with the car numbers you’d been seen in. And this is the only hideout near that Damian hasn’t found.”

Bloody Damian breaking into his bloody safehouses so of course bloody Tim could find him.

“B doesn’t know, by the way. That I’m here, I mean. I thought you deserved to at least tell a side before we brought you in for murder.” Tim scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes skittishly sliding left and right. He’d come without telling Bruce? Damn, Jason was surprised. Guess he was a real boy after all. A real boy with real blood.

He raised his hands slowly, palms up into the air in surrender.

“Listen kid, if you’ve ever trusted me anything, get out of here. Turn your back and don’t look back.” He didn’t add please. Big bad semi-criminal overlords didn’t say the magic word. He didn't like the teen, hated pretty much everything about him, from the cape to the name to the job, but that part wasn't really his fault and he still didn't want to see any kid mauled.

Tim sighed mournfully, soft droopy eyes melting to sadness. “Can you at least tell me why you had his uniform and never said?”

“It never came up.” Jason pointed out. And he was right, it hadn’t. They’d asked if he had _Nightwing_ , not Nightwing’s costume. And at that point Jason wasn’t playing Home with their older, if now a little cuckoo crazy puffs, brother. So he hadn’t really **lied** per se, just avoided certain parts of the truth. Like politicians. Or lawyers. The best kind of people.

He broke off from the round of mental self-applause, going cold as he remembered Dick hiding, less than two metres away. A Dick who seemed to hate the Bat and everything associated it, even more than Jason.  A Dick that he still wasn’t sure if he could control triggered into a fight.

“But you really need to leave-“ He continued nervously, edging his body ever so slightly to the right to further block the vehicle behind him from sight.

“Come with me.” Jason paused; the plea in Tim’s voice was unmistakable. “Explain to them that this is just all some big misunderstanding.”

Jason shot a glance back at the Ford, relieved to see no sign of Dick in the passenger seat. “I can’t do that kid.”

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t say that.” Tim at least had the decency to look a little mournful as he stood, bo staff snapping out to full length behind his back. His quiet voice grew louder and serious as his expression and stance shifted to one ready for combat. “Red Hood I’m taking you in for the murder of Nightwing. You can come quietly but if you do not I will resort to force. Willing or not, you are coming back with me.”

Jason lowered his hands from their surrender, itching them over his belt to where his gun was holstered. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he hadn't wanted a fight,  he was already in trouble for the murder of one Robin and he really didn't want to try for a second. But Tim wasn't exactly the backing down type - none of any of them raised by Bruce were - and if it came to it he was packing tranq bullets. For Dick. Just in case.

He sighed, stroking a thumb over the body of the gun. “Your funeral.”

Tim didn’t even make it two steps forward. Jason held his breath, felt it stop dead in his throat as there was the slightest change in air, barely noticeable but enough to sense the change, followed by the quietest click of a car door inching open. His skin barely had the time to clam up before a black mass was hurtling forward, lightening quick. It launched itself for Tim, who was shaking the stars out of his eyes, still trying to piece together why his head had chosen to slam itself into the front door.

Jason blinked, eyes closed for barely past a second, but when they opened again Dick’s body was hovered over Tim’s, blocking the merry yellow metal insignia at the centre of the costume from sight. The muscles in Dick's back rippled beneath their leather bindings, shoulder blades rolling with an unearthly strength, as if two wings were about to burst through. Tim was by no means small, but compared to the hulking mass of power cornering him, he looked downright tiny.

“Didn’t know, _huff_ , your hostage, _huff_ , was a friend.” Tim wheezed, struggling against the inhumanely strong grip pinning him in place. He’d somehow managed to keep a hold of the bo and it was between him and Dick now, the metal teetering precariously as both hands struggled against Dick’s weight to keep it there.

 “Be careful, he’s a little bitety. Er, a lot,” Jason corrected hurriedly as Tim yelped, barely able to save his hand before Dick’s canines snapped it off.

“You don’t say.” Came the sarcastic – if a little strained – response as Tim’s shoulders heaved, panic writing his face as he lost the battle and in an instant the staff was ripped away, clattering loudly off stone a metre away. Dick used the moment and struck like a viper, one hand forming a fist and socking a gut-wrenching fist to Tim’s stomach while his other caught the form mid-crumple, wrapping around the boy’s throat and lifting him like a ragdoll off the ground.

“I did warn you kid,” Jason snarled, anger and frustration rising to a head. Being here was dangerous. Dick out of the car was dangerous. Tim was dangerous. Dick fighting Tim in close proximity was dangerous. They needed to go now, before-

Behind his mask Tim gave a terrified shriek of exclamation,

_“Dick?!”_

Before that happened.

Jason swore.

Even fighting for his life, Tim always was too smart. In the space of thirty seconds he’d put two and two together and made a missing hero. Something that had taken Jason weeks to do (even with that dumb nickname. _Little_ Wing. God, how hadn’t he realised? He’d been kicking himself after for days).

Tim’s eyes turned to saucers, a grin breaking out over the pained grimace even as he looked over the arm choking him. “Dick, oh god is that Dick? I thought you were- Where’ve you been? We’ve all been worried sick! Damian and Alf will be so happy to hear you’re okay and Bruce can finally- hey woah, Dick, what are you doing?” The stream of happy trill broke to a gurgle, confusion finally entering his voice as he writhed in the grip, trying to get free. Jason snorted. Fat chance of that. He’d been in the man’s hugs before. Tim may as well have been trying to escape a ten pound grizzly.

“It’s Tim!” The sidekick continued to protest. “Come on, Dick." He whined, unable to do anything but kick his heels and grip hands over the unmoving hold. "We’re on the same side.”

If there was ever a sight Jason could appreciate, it was Timothy Drake getting his ass handed to him on a shiny-clean silver platter, but Dick was getting pretty close to leaving permanent damage and he supposed Bruce would be pretty pissed if he handed Lucky Orphan No. 3 back in a bodybag. Especially if it had been Lucky Orphan No.1 who put him in it.

“Hey-oh Dickie,” He called, with the slightest hint of reluctance, to the pair. “That’s okay, you can let him go now.”

Dick didn’t budge, not even turning to look over as he rumbled out “No hurt Jay-Son.”

Tim gave a muffled squeak of agreement, but the sound was slurred, either from the semi-suffocation (Dick had still refused to drop him and for a supposedly Red Robin the teen was turning quite the fetching shade of purple) or the probable concussion that was forming.

“Yeah I’m not hurt, look, Jason’s fine, honour defended.” Jason assured, patting his sides down. He worriedly watched as Tim’s purple turned a violent blue, lines of the mask crinkling as his eyes bulged, the muscles in his neck straining as he floundered for breath. “So just, let him go, okay, bud?”

In Dick’s arms Tim groaned, sounding barely conscious. “He remembers you. Of course he remembers you.”

The rest of the sentence descended into a sharp yelp as Dick finally let his prey go and gravity took over, the Boy Wonder landing splendidly on his rump. He tried to stand, only for knees to crumble and, with a broken cry, fall flat on his face, tufts of hair flopping into the mask whites over the look of betrayal. Elegant.

Equally unimpressed, Dick ghosted past the body, sparing a curious tilt of his head as he made his way back to Jason, puffing his chest out to look bigger and taking his usual place behind his shoulders with one hand firmly attaching to his hip.

Jason feigned hurt. “Why wouldn’t he remember me? I’m a wonderful person! I told you I didn’t kill him.” He added. And uh oh, if that wasn’t the right thing to say. On the ground Tim instantly bristled, loudly indignant.

“You’ve had him all this time?!”

“Had him, rescued him from a life of servitude and murder, but I guess you wouldn’t see it that way. Tomatoe tomato, eh?” Jason grinned dismissively, but some of his annoyance still bled through; a hard edge to his voice that he couldn’t quite soften.

Tim stared at him, suddenly horrified, like he was some mad scientist who’d just stuck an extra hand to Dick’s head. “Jason, what have you done?”

Jason’s vision painted red as veins bubbled and popped in his forehead. “What have I done?! What have I done?!” He threw his hands up in the air, face contorting to rage. Of course they would blame this all on him. Couldn't be that Dickie fucked up and got himself hit with some memory gun, had to be  _Jason_ that had turned him that way with some type of oogah boogah mind control. 

“Fat lot of gratitude is that! Oh but I forgot, Red Hood can’t do anything right, can he? Gotta fuck up all the time, right?" He laughed bitterly. "Well it may surprise you to learn but I saved him! Saved him when you all couldn’t! He didn’t come to you, or Damian, or Bruce, he came to me! He needs me!” He broke off from the tirade, pausing for breath only to begin again as Tim opened his mouth, ready to protest. Catching a gulp of air before growling,

“And tell B to fuck off. If he was trained to kill me then he was trained to kill all of us and I’d rather not have one visit from the world’s greatest douche regressing all the progress I’ve made.”

“Bruce can help him. The Cave has equipment, we can run tests, find out what’s wrong-“

“He doesn’t need needles or tests, he needs care and attention and love.” Jesus, Jason just threw up a little in his mouth. He felt Dick’s body quiver against his own as his tone turned accusatory, an inch of hurt creeping in. “And we both know Bruce doesn’t have that.”

“Taking him away from his family isn’t love, Jason." Tim fired back. "It’s kidnapping.”

“I’m his family too.” Jason reminded him with a low growl.

“You never wanted to be before.” Tim pointed out bluntly. “You threw him out of a building.”

“Things change.” Jason snarled defensively, his hands instinctively falling to grip his hips – one landing over Dick’s and giving it a reassuring squeeze – as he jutted his chin. “And how was I supposed to know Nightwing was going to be at that drug bust?”  

At the window, Jason’s days before chosen point of escape, standing in front of the pane in full boy blue with a smirk curving his lips and the cocky air of thinking himself a damn godsend as he spotted Jason and lifted an arm to wave (only for the arm to immediately drop and the smirk to descend into a look of horror as he spotted the seven armed fellas hoofing it round the corner after him). And in that moment Jason had been prone to agree with him because the alley outside was a very long way down and Dick’s body was an absolute miracle for his butt.  It wasn’t like he’d planned it all to go that way, but hey, little joys in life and all that crap.

"Don't do this, please." Tim begged, his voice cracking in part before breaking completely, little bursts of tears appearing at the edges of his eyes. "He needs help, he needs Bruce."

"He needs me." Jason repeated stubbornly, a tidal wave of euphoria sweeping his being as Dick's fingers gently threaded over his own.  _Confirmation._ He almost whooped aloud, wanted to run a ring or shout his happiness from the rooftops and declare his delight to the world _because Dick had chosen him again_. He wanted Jason not Bruce. (Bruce would throw him in a tank and plunge needles through his flesh until his computer beeped out what was wrong. Bruce would fire off question after question and expect answers - lengthy answers even from a half-turned mute - until he found out just how much of the Bat was compromised. Bruce would take one look at his activities record and lock him up in Arkham faster than you could say brooding unemotional robot).

He felt the grin break out, forcing his lips to spring open and he turned his face to Dick's to smile in sheer joy, the moment shared just between them before he finally caught himself and turned back to Tim.

“We’ll come after you.” Tim promised as Jason broke Dick's hold and walked forward, his eyes haunted as he stared through Jason to Dick, flinching a little when they found hard amber glaring back through the Ray Bans screen. “Bruce, me, Damian. We’ll never stop looking. You’ll never be safe.”

“Spine-chilling.” Jason told him flatly.

Tim raised his face higher off the ground, mouth set fiercely determined as he glared. “We’ll get him back.”

“No.” Jason tried to find some relishment in the word, but both it and his smile were mournful as he leaned down, gripped a hand through Tim’s hair and slammed his face roughly back into the cobble, the boy’s body and expression going slack as consciousness sped away. “You won’t.”

None of them would.

Dick Grayson the annoying, bratty wannabe brother he’d known, who’d thrown popcorn kernels at the back of his head as he warbled off along to _You’re Welcome_ and tricked him out of a night's murder and into too many rounds of Monopoly was gone.

Now Jason just had to save what was left.

He held the teen up to his face for a moment, making sure he really was out, rather than acting it. Satisfied, he dropped the kid, not sorry when the mop of night collided with the stone with a heavy thud, then turned to the former Talon. “Wait in the car; I’ll be back in a minute.”

He was back in five, two cases swinging at his sides; each filled with a stash of ids and their linked debit cards, the spare cash he’d had lying round and some old t-shirts and jeans of his that he hoped would fit Dick.

“He knew me.” Dick croaked, looking up as Jason opened the door, chucking the cases onto the backseat before climbing into the driver’s, slamming the door behind him.

“Yeah.” Jason replied, even though it wasn’t a question.

Dick closed his eyes, leaning his head back into the seat. “I knew him.” He murmured, quietly contemplative.

“Yeah.” Jason answered. “You did.”

He faced determinedly forward, not daring to look at the remains of his brother as they drove away, Tim’s glower remaining heavy on him long after they’d disappeared into the night.


	21. Taken Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Updates return to normal schedule"
> 
> Sarcastically claps
> 
> WARNING for implied non-con

Talon cracked one lid open then cautiously the other, side-eying Jason as best he could without turning his head and being caught. A part of him still screamed to kill Hood, and it would be easy to, his strength was far superior and he knew the driver wouldn’t be able to stop him from wrestling the wheel out of his grip if he really wanted to. Knew that he would walk away from the crash and Jason wouldn’t. But that part was much smaller now, barely a whisper of it left.

He didn’t know when, perhaps when Red Hood had turned to Jason, perhaps when silent observation from shadows became dumb slip ups that left him caught, perhaps even as soon as when they’d first met, that first time he’d held him down and hadn’t finished the job, but Talon had come to the firm decision that he couldn’t kill the hero, and if he couldn’t kill the hero, then he would protect him instead. Talon may not know much, but he knew Jason was the only thing giving him any sort of chance of freedom. From the Court, from the law, from the Bat-

Jason had been silent ever since he’d got back in the car, a silence Talon wasn’t about to break any time soon. So he sat in the awkward quiet with his legs folded up to his chest and head rested, cocked to one side on his knees, expression morose as he stared dejectedly out the window in what Jason called ‘moping’. It felt fitting; there was an odd flutter to his chest, a heavy rock in his stomach that only seemed to grow heavier as they drove further from the scene. From the man Talon had seen Richard cut loose from cheap plastic chairs in dimly lit rooms, scathingly admonishing the kid for getting caught, though there was a hint of love and a relieved flash swimming through baby blues as the boy slumped into his arms. Richard jump off staircase railings to meet, throwing his body into a freefall only to land perfectly balanced on polished floor tiles, barely pausing to take a breath before he was dashing up with an impossibly wide-stretched grin to pepper their front with worried kisses after a mission completed. Richard lifting out of a desk chair, the monstrous frame oversized, its shape dwarfing the tiny figure who had fallen asleep, head slumped onto an equally oversized panel, the slumbering corpse stirring only to mutter occasional soft moans as he was strapped to broad back and carried up winding steps like a baby koala,  

Talon had felt a similar urge to the one he felt for Jason when looking at the owlet, and he somehow knew that this boy was special, that he shouldn’t, couldn’t, kill him. But then the cape had attacked Jason and the part whispering they were dangerous, that Red Robin would be one of his targets eventually, that he needed to die and Talon be the one to do it, became a lot easier to listen to.    

Fear was weakness, and weakness wasn’t needed (was drilled out and punished, _punished, **punished**_ ), but Talon couldn’t lie. He was scared of the Bat. Almost as much as he was terrified of the Court. He knew that Bruce Wayne would never want Talon, could never want a murderer. And that he would do anything he could to bring back his ward, the man Talon had once been. He’d want Richard Grayson, wouldn’t care what happened to the pieces that were Talon. If they just disappeared. But there was a deeper fear there. Buried far beneath all the abandonment and isolation issues to a part that didn’t belong to Talon. That would never quite belong to him. A mind numbing fear of seeing Bat, _Bruce,_ again, a gut wrenching panic that had him almost curled in the corner hyperventilating every time his thoughts swayed towards it. He couldn’t see Bruce. Not after he’d broken the rule, the one rule that could never be broken. Heroes didn’t kill. Bats didn’t kill.

He tried, for Jason, to be Dick Grayson. To smile and nod and laugh at bad jokes. To not recoil when touched and even give out embraces of his own. To not launch, rabid, for the attendant who had just batted her false, tacky lashes at his Jason. To not kill the man who had just walked into his Jason’s space, the balding, overweight fatty with bacon breath and a just as greasy sneer who had just touched his Jason, had just aimed a fist for his Jason’s face, had just reached for a taser and would have half electrocuted his Jason, sent his Jason spiralling to the ground in agony screaming, if Talon hadn’t stepped behind and snapped the guard’s arm till it gurgled and fell limp.

He didn’t have the heart to tell his Jason Richard was gone. That he’d died the night Talon had first taken blood and now there were just the occasionally piped up whispers of a ghost long dead left in his head. He side-eyed Hood again, wondering sadly if Jason was the same as the Bat, if he didn’t care what happened to Talon as long as he got his Richard back.  If he’d abandon him when he found out that wasn’t possible. That his Richard was dead and buried and lost.

His body jerked sickeningly into attention, muscles quivering for the unspoken fight. Tyres squealed, brakes shrilly screeching their speed to a close as the car growled protest. He expected the sudden crunch of glass shard as bullets battered the windscreen. He did not expect Jason to scowl, punch the wheel in frustration and grit “Bloody traffic lights.” Beneath his breath.

They had stopped, Talon observed, for a drunken couple to (poorly) cross the street.

A flash of movement caught his eye, breaking him from his thoughts. A blurred shape moving across rooftops impossibly fast, so quick anyone untrained would put it down to a trick of the light. A soft slither of dread ran down Talon’s back as, almost as if knowing it had been spotted, the blur stopped, long enough for the two pairs of amber eyes to lock. He sighed softly to himself. So the Court hadn’t forgotten him. Of course, they’d never let their asset go so easily and he’d been delusional to ever think otherwise.

The car lurched forward, red turned green, and when he next looked up to the rooftops the glowing pair of eyes were gone.

He didn’t tell Jason about their pursuer. The man was enough of a wreck of nerves already, buzzing in his seat paranoid while driving and spending half the time on their stops looking over his shoulder and the other half scanning for cameras on his front.

“You should get some sleep. We still got a good hour to go.” Jason declared, breaking the silence with all subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Talon blinked, caught in the act.

“I’ll try.” He lied, sliding further down the seat and half closing his eyes, pretending he wasn’t watching Jason drive, the passing lights bouncing over the glass shield throwing new detail to his face, casting those already bright emerald orbs to sparkle and shine like the precious stones they were.

…

Jason got to work that night, knowing Tim would have made it back and blabbed and the entire Bat clan would now be hot on their trail. He'd risked a quick stop in a 24/7 local to grab stock before booking them into a hotel, false names, false id, false background stories, the works, you could never be too careful. Not with the ever paranoid Bruce checking and rechecking information all the way up to a hundred. He felt a wave of cold as the shower stuttered to an end, a stream of muddy brownish black disappearing down the drain. The chill only intensified as he stepped out of the tub and hurriedly wrapped the linen off the bath edge around his middle.

There was a slight twinge of sadness as he towelled off ragged ends and peered through the settled layer of smog at his reflection in the mirror stuck above the sink. Mousy brown greeted him, plain and most importantly, overlookable, the standout pitch black gone, though there was still that splinter of frosted white splitting down the front, evidence of his time in the Pit that despite his best efforts had refused to come out. This wasn’t the first time he’d dyed his hair, he’d done it plenty for undercover missions, had needed to dye it constantly during his time as Robin until eventually ginger had conceded defeat. He ran fingers through the strands, figured he had roughly two weeks before the black started to leech stubbornly through again.

A little hair dye and contacts and he was a completely new person, but it would be a lot harder to pass off Dick as anything less than unnatural. He’d need a complete makeover. Haircut, hair dye, contacts. Jason had bought an entire armful of cosmetics just to get the Talon looking remotely human again. And he was determined to get him out of that uniform. Whatever it took.

Talon withdrew all sentiment of ever liking Jason when he approached him, coming out of the bathroom with a towel gripping his hips and a new bird’s nest of hair. He walked forward slowly, like you would when going near a dangerous animal. Talon took one look at the towel, change of clothes and shampoo bottle offered in Jason’s hands, narrowed his eyes and bolted for the door.

Jason gave a yelp and lunged for him but Talon was faster, twisting his body just out of reach so the man fell flat on his face with a pained oof. Talon didn’t have time to celebrate his victory though, because Jason made a dive for the bed, the bed that he kept his suitcase of tricks in case he ever needed to subdue an out of control Dick.

There’d only been a few instances where he’d needed to use it, mostly mornings when Dick woke up with his memory spotty and lunged for the stranger sharing his bed, and he’d never had to flat out shoot him to snap him out. Yet.

Talon got one hand on the door, about to yank it open, when there was a sharp whistle of air followed by a shriek of his own mouth. There was a weight to his feet that hadn’t been there before and he went down, hard, dragged to the ground and pretty much immobilised by the bolas now tightened around his ankles.

Jason wandered over, muttering sorry’s as he stooped and lifted the struggling killer, pulling him into his arms against his chest and bridle carrying him through to the still smoky bathroom, only to dump his body into the bath.

“Come on,” He coaxed, slapping the sides of the tub gently. “It’s just a bath. A little water isn’t going to hurt.”

Dick, still struggling and doing his damndest to wriggle free of the bolas, didn’t answer.

Jason took no prisoners, zip tying wrists behind Dick’s back before grabbing the second stack of cheap dyes he’d bought off the sink counter, more sorry’s filling the otherwise silence as he poured the mixture into the man’s hair, fingernails scraping against cooled scalp as they piled more gloop through, darkened patches of night quickly becoming honey bright glowing daylight.

A blush dappled his cheeks as Jason began to tear into the uniform, his boxers becoming ever uncomfortably tight as piece by piece the leather slabs disappeared, Dick's chest then lower more and more exposed until he was almost fully nude, tied up in the tub completely unclothed in a scene straight from Jason's fantasies.

Dick’s back had always been a story of his time as hero, the scar from the time he got shot by a Two Face henchman, the three inch crimson monstrosity left behind on an overconfident Robin by Joker, a slash across his hip, the angry red line left by an ever smug Deathstroke, but there were new scars now, large welts that were part way faded, swells in the skin that he could only guess at the agony that must have been caused. More worrying, though, was that Dick’s struggles gave in the moment Jason’s hands unhooked his collar. He’d been expecting a struggle, knew Dick was reluctant to take the uniform off (his almost broken, still buzzing nose was testament to that), but what he got was anything but.

 The man’s face faded to a blank, emotionless slate as his body stilled completely. And Jason hadn’t been expecting that. Questions began to form, answers with them, (answers that he didn’t want, prayed to deities that he didn’t even believe in weren’t true) as more and more of the uniform came off.

“Oh fuck Dick, I’m sorry.” He whispered. Dick’s head bobbed in the tiniest nod Jason had ever seen, eyes betraying a sheer terror he’d never seen, didn’t even think Dick could have, before they slipped back to blank void. It was a look he’d seen far too often. He’d seen it on the strays he rescued off the sleaziest Gotham streets, on the still half doped up children he broke out of cages in grimy rundown hideouts. On the crack addicts who'd sold their houses and their souls and the clothes off their back and now had nothing else left to sell. And now he was seeing it on Dick.

“I’m going to start the water now, okay?” he whispered, voice a slight crack to it as he unhooked the lead, pulling the head free and aiming it over the now blonde’s head.

Dick didn’t reply. Just croaked out a ragged whine and stayed perfectly still, a far-off look in his eyes that had Jason vowing to find every member of that damned Court and put a bullet where the sun don’t shine.

He shivered when the water started, flinching beneath the new warmth on his skin before seeming to catch himself and force shakings to retreat to that statuesque stillness.

“Sorry I’m so sorry.” Jason continued to ramble, not really sure what he was apologising for. For being an asshole to the only person that still treated him as family. For slamming the door in Boy Wonder’s face every time he turned up to his apartment. For not clicking pieces of the puzzle together sooner. For not rescuing Nightwing in time before... He was sorry for pretty much everything, really.

Dick still didn’t talk. Didn’t even look at Jason, just staring blank faced at the wall straight ahead. But he trembled like a leaf whenever the water fell anywhere but his head, his lips not parting but a thin gurgle passing out them, a new urgency to breath that Jason recognised very quickly as the beginnings of a panic attack.

“Fuck.”

He dropped the shower head, not really caring that it was still on, probably flooding the floor and soaking through to the underneath room’s ceiling by now, clambering into the tub and lowering himself to Dick’s level.

 “Dick, DICK! You need to breathe, you’re having a panic attack, okay, just listen to my voice and do what I say-”

He reached round Dick’s back, grabbing his tied hands and squeezing them, hard. An edge to his words as he tried to control his own inner panicking. 

“I’m gonna count down from 10 to 1 and when I reach zero you’re going to be breathing normally, right? You have to do that for me Dick, just breathe, nice and deep and slow.”

Dick's head gave the slightest fraction of a tilt, and Jason, ever the optimist, took it as confirmation to continue.

“Ten.”

Jason began counting, forcing the words that wanted to tumble past his lips to slow into something intelligible.

“Nine.

Eight.

Seven.”

Dick’s eyes had scrunched shut, his expression screwed tight. Jason could only watch horrified at the head bobbing up and down violently, frame shrinking as it curled in on itself.

“Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.”

Dick’s breaths had evened, the sharpened gasps petering off. But he was still shuddering, body bucking and writhing out of control beneath Jason’s grip.

“Two.

One.”

He reached zero, barely managing the word before Dick was slumping into him with an exhausted sigh.

“It’s okay, you beat it bud. You won.” Jason comforted, whispering soothing words into the shell of Dick’s ear as the mess of limbs hiccupped. Eyes finally fluttered open, their depths a bottomless abyss as they pooled desperately into his own.

They stayed that way for hours, Jason not caring that he was in soaking wet clothes sat in a freezing cold bath, his eyes closed and face pressed into Dick’s hair, arms tightly clutching the sobbing, curled up Dick against his chest.

…

Talon lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling and listening to Jason’s breaths, relaxing in the timed puffs of heat tickling the insides of his ear. Once happy the man was indeed asleep and not faking it (as he had tried so many times until Talon simply snapped and wrapped him up in his body, holding him into his chest to keep him in bed until the little laboured fake sleep breaths became the real deal), Talon untangled himself from Jason's form, padding across to the other side of the room, pausing by a cabinet to gingerly sneak the sleek metal cylinder he’d seen Jason flicker on every so often into his pocket. It was odd, wearing something other than the uniform he'd been so determined to never take off around Jason. The denim scratched his skin, coarse and irritating as the two sizes too big t-shirt baggily hanging off around his hips. 

He risked a glance at the slumbering form, a flood of warmth filling his being as he remembered the feel of Jason’s fingers over his own. Even in the dark the shape was still crystal clear in its outline, lines of muscle pronounced even through the covers. He tore his eyes away, crossing slowly to the wall, inching the window open and slipping quietly out.

He laughed as he landed in the alley. A dull sound that didn’t quite remember to reach his mouth, his lips stubbornly sticking in a downturned grimace. “So they sent a failure after a failure.”

A bulk of shadow moved, taking the shape of a man as they stepped from the darkened sides into the alley’s middle. The hood was unexpectedly off, owl’s head abandoned, leaving unfiltered gold rounds glaring through storm swept mocha strands. “They sent the loyal servant after the traitor.”

Talon barely held back a snort. “I have no duty to the Court. I have a life now. One they will not control.”

Carver scoffed. “With the boy? I will kill him after I defeat you. Then I will drag your dead corpse back to our home and throw you at the Court’s feet myself.”

“You think the Court will need you alive if they have me again? All that ice must have gone to your brain,” Talon sneered.  “You’re deluded Carver.”  

Carver's lips twisted as he barked a flat laugh. “You are the one with delusions; accept your destiny, Gray Son of Gotham. The moment you were born, you belonged to the Court. Why fight what you are meant to be?”

Talon thought of the man sleeping so peacefully no less than twenty metres away, without any sort of idea the winner would decide his life or death. “Some things are worth fighting for.” He answered softly. As if sensing his new resolve, Carver’s fingers fell to bronze handles, sharpened claws plucking them from his front as Talon bolted forward.

Unlike his previous bouts against Jason, Talon did not bother to show off. Talons, even ex Talons, were fiercely skilled, inhumanely strong and impossibly quick. He could waste neither time nor energy on shows of skill, if he did the fight would be over and Jason as good as dead.

Carver may have been the Court’s tool for longer but Talon had circus experience on his side. No matter the amount of training the other had, a Grayson would always rule the air.

He angled his body, flipping gracefully to avoid the trio of knives sprung in his direction, the blades breezing the edge of his side to embed into the dirt-stained brick overlay behind him.

A fourth knife flashed out in a curve, cutting through the air to slash out at his neck but he simply vaulted Carver’s shoulders, springing off the ground and pushing off the skin like a launch pad to fly over the attack, plucking the weapon straight out of Carver’s hand, slashing it down the side of Carver’s face and throwing it away down the alley mid-flight.

Carver hissed in indignation, touching a finger to the welt now split across his cheek. The glare turned murderous, his actions quickly becoming more violent, swings heavy handed and easier to dodge, and soon hisses of indignation turned to howls of frustration as blades five to six quickly disappeared the same way, both briefly sinking into and out of the space above Carver’s collar bone before clattering out the conflict with the heavy tell-tale tu-thunk of metal hitting concrete.

Blade seven lodged itself in Talon’s shin, precious seconds run out and a successfully manipulated feint leaving no space to avoid the swipe. His lips pursed, a strained groan whistling through them as denim and flesh ripped, speckles of bleach white bone visible as rolls of crimson steadily leaked down his leg.

Carver darted forward, ready to finish the job and Talon had no time, no choice, had to lumber to the side, fit one hand around the handle still stuck in the hole and yank.

Spots speckled across his vision, bleach white riding waves of pain that rippled up his limbs, all the way up to the nausea clawing its way out of his mouth. He blinked each away, dragging himself out of the agony as talons swiped for his stomach, aimed straight for his gut. He threw himself clumsily back out the way, tumbling into a forward roll, using the momentum to carry himself beneath the bone-breaking roundhouse kick aimed where his chest would have been. Claws raked for his head in a deadly arc as he rose back up, would have pierced his skull and splintered it open if he didn’t catch Carver’s wrists in between his hands and hold them there.

His legs protested, spears of agony flaring through the stab wound. His knees buckled, wobbling beneath the strain as the sharpened points strained, sometimes edging closer towards his head, sometimes pushed higher back up and further away, in a deadly tug of war.

The knife still clutched in his hand quivered, edge grazing Carver’s arm as their struggle continued, both determined not to give any ground. But slowly the claws were being pushed higher and higher, Carver’s cheeks puffed up in exertion as his shoulders trembled and crumbled, the talons finally high enough above his head for Talon to let go and dart forward, tackling the man backwards into the alley wall, the knife in his hand quickly flipped to point blade first to Carver’s heart.

There was strength in the strike, enough to carry through the leather costume and flesh, driving through to the unbeating organ all in one go. It should have killed the man, would have killed any other instantly, but Talon could still feel Carver moving beneath him, knew that what should have been instant death was little over a couple of stunned seconds for the tool.

He kept his grip on the handle, feeling it shudder as it pierced the heart and continued, the twinges as insides gave and allowed the blade to slip, through and out the other side, his hand deep into the cage of Carver’s ribs as the weapon burst through the skin of Carver’s back.

He drove the weapon forward, sinking it deep into the wall, finally dropping his hold and pulling his hand free. The corpse hung stiffly up, pinned in place.  

Talon grimaced as he glanced at his ruined civvies, wondering exactly how he would explain the bloody gash to Jason.  

_I tripped and fell_

Richard was clumsy enough for Jason to believe that.

He reached into his pocket, suddenly feeling oddly hollow as he dug the shiny metal body out.

“Be free brother,” He murmured softly as he raised the lighter to Carver’s head, not breaking his gaze as the tiny lick of flame took, burning bigger and brighter as red hot orange hungrily gorged on grey. Carver’s eyes were still open, still seeming to stare right at him. Talon knew the meta was still conscious, could still hear and see and feel the flames that were devouring his being and for that he was sorry, knew he must be in agony at the moment, but at least Carver wouldn’t have the sorrow of being brought back, would be free of the fear of the ice and awakening once more.

He sighed softly as the last of the face bubbled and crumbled away till it was nothing but leaks of ash left behind on mucky stonework. He’d liked Carver. Talons trained their own and he had memories of his then superior that could even almost be called fond. Carver sneaking him extra food when he was too malnourished to move, letting him see the sky as reward for a show of skill, allowing five minutes outside (supervised) whenever he bested him in their sparring sessions. Carver didn’t talk much of the past but Talon could tell they’d come from similar backgrounds. There was a genuine likeability about the killer. Back before all emotion had been trained out of him. And even then he’d felt a pang of guilt and crawl of shame when he’d driven the blade through Carver’s gut on the bloodstained dust of the Court's arena to take his place as Talon.

Talon spared one last look to the pile of smouldered out cinders before turning his back and scaling the wall back up to the window, clambering over the sill and limping over, slotting himself silently back into the bed covers, closing his eyes as he felt the familiar flood of warmth of his companion. His Jason would be worried if he didn’t wake up next to his Richard.


	22. Into the Storm

Jason raised an eyebrow slowly at the blood.  He leaned forward where he sat, poked a finger experimentally through the hole, glaring at it before turning his focus to the man sheepishly staring back.

“What the fuck Dick? I'm asleep seven hours and you’ve already ruined them.”

Dick blushed, his head bobbing down, embarrassed. “Tripped and fell,” he mumbled, blushing as eyes moved to toe down at ragged sneakers. The surge of guilt was like a punch to the stomach, nausea welling thick and steady as the words left his mouth. He hated to lie, but it was better that way. For Jason. He knew if the hero found out the truth he would stubbornly duke it out with any number of talons and die before admitting there was a fight he couldn’t win.

Jason sighed. “Okay, there’s another pair in the second case, the one under your bed. Throw me them when you’re done changing.”

He watched Dick’s back as it disappeared into the bathroom, wanting to call him back and say more. His eye twitched in irritation. Tripped and fell was such a Dick Grayson excuse. But for some reason he couldn’t get it out of his head that something more had happened. Something Dick wasn’t telling him.

Nearly a minute later the bathroom door reopened, the bloody clothes almost hitting him square in the face.

Jason’s lighter was missing so they had to take the jeans with them. He wasn’t going to risk just throwing them in a dumpster and running. Not with Bruce, genius busy body Bruce and his blood analysing devices, on their trail.   

Dick kept quiet when Jason asked him where the lighter was, mumbling that it “Must have fallen out of his pocket.” Before turning his attention back to the window and the scenery blurring past. Conversation over.

He bought a new one at a filling station, turned absolutely seething when they ID’d him over the counter. He bought a pack of smokes too, and sat on the hood of the car, watching the smoke curl up and away into the sky, a disapproving Dick glaring at the offending tendrils like they were holding a knife to Jason’s throat.

Jason managed one proper drag, his shoulders sagging in relief as the buzz hit, before suddenly the cigarette had been knocked out of his mouth, grey still spiralling off in smoky whispers as it lay on the ground, and Dick was striding away.

“Hey!” Jason protested, throwing a hand to the sky while the other flipped the receding back off. “The fuck was that for?”

Dick didn’t answer, opening the driver’s door and gesturing inside. “Need to move. Stay too long.” He explained eventually when Jason made no attempt to follow him.

Jason stared at Dick like he wanted to say more, like he wanted to scream or at least shout loudly at the man for ruining his much needed break. But then his shoulders deflated, mouth closing up and with a growl he was snatching the rest of the box off the hood, barging past Dick and clambering into the seat, one foot slamming the pedal, kicking the engine into gear.

The new lighter was missing the next day. The pack of cigarettes disappeared with it.

He knew it must be Dick taking them. Who else could it be, the ghost of lung cancer future? But he didn’t ever confront him about it. He couldn’t find it in himself to ever interrogate the talon past anything but the “Hey do you know where my lighter is?” to which Dick would huff, say that no he didn’t, testily adding that it was a bad habit to keep anyway, and Jason would turn silent and stare as he fled, looking after like he wanted to say more.

He wanted to say more. A lot more. But sorry didn’t seem like it would cut it. 

…

Jason’s first few attempts into the world of cosmetics failed spectacularly, each ending with harlot red lipstick smeared over cringeworthily orange skin and a new photo saved away in his phone (you never knew when you’d need some good old fashioned blackmail material). The Youtube videos made it look so easy, but it wasn’t and he could tell that Dick was quickly getting fed up of being stabbed in the eye by mascara wands. Eventually he got the hang of it though, and Dick went from washed out just raised from the dead zombie vampire to just about passable as human.

Seeing Dick with blue eyes again was a fucking emotional train wreck. They weren’t the right shade of blue, needed to be clearer, should have been a lighter crystal, glowed too pale, burnt more innocent. He tried to avoid looking Dick in the eye after that, the colour seeming fake, wrong on Dick’s face. Painfully artificial. Seeing it took the guilt, the horror and fear for what had happened to Dick, for what Jason had allowed to happen to Dick, and multiplied it tenfold. 

“These are going to burn like a bitch,” he’d warned as he handed the contacts lenses over to the man who practically snatched them out of his hands, eagerly stuffing them in. “But yellow eyes are just too damn noticeable and we do not need the attention right now.”

 “They look, okay?” Dick had asked, blushing as he self-consciously poked at an eyeball.

“Yeah good, they look good,” Jason had stammered, looking away before Dick could notice the pink spreading across his face and the guilt in his gaze.

In ripped denim, a loose fitting tee and lathered in four layers of foundation, Dick looked almost normal. He looked better than normal, better than good. Dick could pull any sort of look off and still look like he’d just stepped right out the pages of some girls’ gossip magazine. Turned out blonde was no different and Jason wasn’t blind, he couldn’t not notice the stares that followed every time they stopped to grab lunch or fuel.

He heard the giggles, saw the batted lashes and pouted lips. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t jealous when a redhead sashayed over in five inch heels and fawned all over Dick’s arm. That he didn’t care when a leering frat boy scribbled something on paper and slipped his number into Dick’s back pocket as he strolled past, eyes lingering appreciatively on the curve of Dick’s ass. That sacrificing his cup of mildly burning coffee all over the redhead’s crop top was the accident he said it was. That he didn’t grab Dick’s arm and stride away, one hand reaching behind Dick’s waist to pluck the paper out his pocket and lob it in a passing trashcan out of some ridiculous feeling of possessiveness.

He told himself that they’d spent too much time, that if they didn’t leave now either Bruce or Tim or Slade would catch up. It was the logical thing to do. And that it wasn’t because he was still in love with Dick fucking Grayson.

…

“Hot cocoa, you still haven’t tried it, right?” Jason grinned as he eased himself out of the bone crushing hug and off the bed. “We can have hot cocoa and watch more movies, though I’ll have to grab more milk, wouldn’t trust this stuff as far as I could throw it.” His knuckles rapped off the grimy milk carton they’d found in the cramped fridge provided. Jason couldn’t find a use by date on the carton but he’d guess it was anytime around the 1900s. “I saw a 24/7 on the way in, should only be gone five, ten minutes. Fifteen at most.”

He smiled at Dick. Trying to pretend that he wasn’t running. That he wasn’t making up excuses to get away from the unbearable, suffocating guilt he felt around the hero. That he wasn’t abandoning him so that he didn’t have to stare into those fake blue seas and know that he’d failed. Just like he failed at everything else he did.

Dick had been quieter lately, his movements grown sluggish and tired. He stayed in bed more, seemed to lose all his energy quicker, now slumping into his seat gratefully rather than sitting up alert.

Sometimes it was like he couldn’t be bothered moving, like it took too much energy to live and he was just ready to lie down and die.

Jason hated it. He couldn’t watch it anymore.

“You’ll be okay, right? He asked, partly out of guilt. Mostly out of guilt.

On the bed Dick gave his own smile back in answer, every bit as convincing as Jason’s.

He pretended though, as he pulled his jacket off the hook and slipped out the door, eagerly stumbling into the night, that it had been genuine.

…

Talon shrieked, feeling the metal, the unexpected invasion as his skin caved, insides torn like paper, unable to hold against the attack.

He stared down his chest to the sword now impaled out his stomach.

Two, they’d sent two. Talon realised. And he’d been so worried thinking about Jason coming back and finding him gone that he hadn’t noticed until the second had stabbed him in the back.

He made a grabbing motion for the tip, screeching as a second blade lodged itself into his left thigh. He’d forgotten about the first. Rookie mistake.

Mistakes. He’d been making a lot of those tonight. Errors that had left one side of his ribs broken, an arm hanging limply at the wrong angle, dislocated. A shallow stab wound at his waist, a slash over his throat that had very nearly taken his neck. Dodges not quite fast enough to clear. Swipes never quite landing where they should. Senses not sharpened to anticipate attacks. To notice the second Talon in the shadows. The endless nights of continuously fighting ex-Talons taking their toll, chipping away at his energy. Even Jason had noticed the slump in his behaviour, had suggested hot cocoa and gone out to get milk and nearly died for it.

Would have died for it, if Talon hadn’t shadowed him down to the street and picked the knife meant for his head out of the air.

He swayed drunkenly on the spot, vision and strength fading, dimly noting the new dizziness and unnatural effort it took to stand. Drugs or poison. Their blades were drugged or poisoned.

He fought to stay upright, trying to stand while the world seemed to just want to fall on one side and pass out. One hand numbly slid down to his pocket, pins and needles dully buzzing as he rolled the sphere over in his fingers. He shuddered, body revolting on itself, a loud hack sounding out the back of his throat as he bit down on his tongue hard, hard enough to draw blood, to stay awake. Alertness flooded back, but he knew it would be only temporary, that it would soon fade and then he’d pass out, as good as dead, and they’d take him and kill Jason. The drug’s effect numbed and he grasped the chance, knowing he was grasping at straws, yanking the ball out and smashing it off the ground.

Rolls of fog leaked out, instantly filling the entire alley, providing him with just enough cover. Canines sunk into chapped lips, metallic copper taste flooding his mouth as he sagged against the wall, hands coming away slippery with blood as he pushed the sword out of his belly. He left the one in his leg, the smoke was already starting to clear and he wouldn’t have time to stay and remove it, so he simply ignored it, forced one foot in front of the other, drools of crimson dogging his steps as he unsteadily tottered away.

Jason stared at the mess of Dick Grayson dying bleeding out on their double bed, dropping the milk in his arms as he bolted forward.

“Shit.”

 


	23. The Reluctant Return

Blood.

There was so much blood. Rivers of scarlet, all pumping out of any part of Dick – his arms, his legs, his neck. And all at an alarming rate. Lying like that, skin opened up like it was some kind of gift wrapping to the present underneath, chest fluttering as rasps of breath battled to get through his lips, Dick looked so human. So vulnerable. The gashes in his chest were so deep and raw, he looked like he’d been mauled by a goddam escaped _tiger_. Jason didn’t know how long the hero had been there but the previously white mattress was already sodden through. A puddle had formed beneath one outstretched arm, and was steadily building into a small lake. The other hung loosely at his side, its natural shape mangled, either broken out of shape or dislocated. The gash on his neck pulsed as the muscles twitched, breathy pants half gurgles as blood and air left chapped, ruby-stained lips. God Jason just didn’t know where to start.

“I’m sorry bud, this is probably going to hurt, definitely going to hurt.” Jason babbled, snatching up a pillow from behind Dick’s head and desperately smashing it against the gaping hole in Dick’s stomach, ignoring his now drenched hands and applying more pressure as the fountain slowly fizzled out. Once happy the blood from there had at least stopped, he turned his attention to Dick’s lower.

“We’ll get you cleaned up, but that’s gotta go first, kay D?”

The still unconscious Dick gave no answer and Jason took that as good a go ahead as any. He gritted his teeth, wrapping one hand round the handle of the knife _buried into Dick’s shin_ and pulled. It was worrying how still Dick stayed when the blade came away, he had expected a scream, but the hero didn’t even let out a moan as he tugged the weapon free, staying exactly where he was, bone white skin somehow managing to lose even more colour, turning deathly pale. Jason could have easily mistaken him for dead if it wasn’t for the rivers of sweat pouring off his brow.

He didn’t wait around to watch the meta’s healing factor kick in, dropping to his knees and clawing out the case from under the bed. He winced as he scrabbled over the carpet, the rug already sticky to new stains that must have oozed through the underside. He found the box, snatching it up and dragging spools of bandages from its insides. Dick didn’t stir as he wrapped his neck, remained limp as Jason eased his body into a sitting position so as to bind his chest. He didn’t even stutter when Jason, grimacing, put one hand over the jarred shoulder and yanked, forcing it back into place.

Jason found himself fighting off a panic – Dick would survive, he had too, he’d seen him shot and standing five seconds later, he’d pull through, of course he would, the meta couldn’t die. He dragged the mandatory battered chair present in all the lodgings they’d stayed from the corner over to the bed, slumping deeply into its body. He caught one of Dick’s hands, gripping it firmly in his own.

He didn’t sleep, couldn’t have been able to even if he wanted, instead passing the time staring at Dick’s face, hawkishly watching for any change. It could have been minutes, hours, days, years, but Dick’s body lurched, spasming as amber eyes flew open.

Jason was on him in an instant.

“Why didn’t you tell me the Court were following us?”

Dick offered a weak smile. All blood. No teeth. Jason shivered.

“You’d have…tried to fight.”

Damn right he would have.   

He clenched Dick’s hand tighter.

“Stupid, self-sacrificing idiot. How many times?” The man remained silent, so Jason pressed on, his tone creeping up. “Dick, how many times? I’m not going to be mad, I just need to know.”

“One every night this week.” Abashed, Dick looked away, suddenly finding new interest in the bloodied remains of his socks, staring intently, completely enraptured by the very existence of his toes.

Jason had lied. He was mad. He was pissed. Pissed at Dick for lying. Pissed at himself for missing six different followers. Pissed he hadn’t noticed Dick’s behaviour change wasn’t due to depression but exhaustion. _Some detective you are, Bruce would have seen them coming, Bruce would never have fallen for Dick’s excuses. Bruce would have seen through them for what they were._

“Tonight there were two.” Dick keened miserably. “It was unexpected, I did not adapt, I miscalculated, I failed.”

“You didn’t fail.” Jason interrupted before Dick could fly into full guilty frenzy. “I’m alive. You’re still here. That doesn’t sound like failure to me.”

Dick’s eyes bugged. His lower lip trembled. “You do not understand, there are two out there, they know our position and we’re-“

“And we’ll beat them, they’re the bad guys. Remember all those films, Avengers, Star Wars?” Jason squeezed Dick’s fingers gently. He leaned forward slightly, his other hand reaching up, carding through the sloppy caramel nest “The bad guy never wins.”

“They will come for us.” Talon quivered, shuddering beneath his touch. “They know I am weakened. More will come. The Court will want their Talon back.”

“Then they’ll have to take you over my lifeless corpse.” Jason declared, taken aback by the note of possession that clung to the words.

“They will.” Dick whispered morosely. “They will kill you to get me. The Court must always have a Talon.”

Jason sat up in his seat, back straightening as he puffed his chest. “Let em try. Red Hood ain’t afraid of nobody.”

Dick gave a raspy chuckle. The sound unnerving, like nails scraped across a chalkboard. “You are so foolish, Little Wing. But I shall stay. I shall keep you safe from them for as long as I can.”

The brunette stared at him, one brow touching the beginning of mocha bangs. “You’re not keeping anyone safe. Not in that condition.”

“I will not lie here like some helpless puppy and let you walk to your death-“ Dick protested, making to get up before Jason’s hand was on his chest, gently pushing him back down.

“You’re staying right here, doctor’s orders. I’ll cuff you to the bed if I have to.” There was no humour in his voice. He was completely serious and Dick seemed to realise this was an argument he wouldn’t be winning, his body slumping back deeper into the mattress with a sad sigh. Happy the Talon wouldn’t try to escape, Jason lifted his hand.

“Please Dick, I need to know, how do I beat them?”

“Fire.” Dick’s voice was too small. It wavered, scared. And again Jason found himself wondering exactly what he’d gone through to make it that way. He’d need to ask eventually, even if it was just to know who to kill.  

“We are afraid of fire, cannot come back if there is no body to return to. And ice. We are slower in the cold.”

He flinched as he said it, another flash of fear hooding his eyes, and Jason found himself leaning closer, offering Dick the comfort of his body. An invitation the Talon gladly took, one arm – the one that had been previously dislocated - snaring Jason’s waist, almost pulling him into the bed.  

“How long do we have?”

“Not long.”

Jason winced. It was an answer he’d been expecting. But a bad one all the same.

“You think you can move?”

Dick’s expression scalded over, looking at Jason, insulted. The way the old Dick Grayson had when a younger, just come to the manor Jason had called out his hair gel collection. He harrumphed.

“I can walk down a few stairs Jaybird.”

Dick couldn’t. His legs wobbled, body swaying tipsily as he took the first step, only to suddenly seem to lose all strength and pitch forward. It would have been a hard fall, possibly even a cracked open skull, if Jason hadn’t been immediately behind him to tug him away from the edge. After that he didn’t take no for an answer, ignoring the Talon’s squeaked protests – the adorably sweet, but empty, threats of decapitation and disembowelment – sweeping Dick off his feet and clutching him against his chest. He felt a burst of warmth as Dick resigned himself to his fate, falling quiet and sagging deeper in against him, arms curling a little tighter, but remaining mindful of the many bindings encasing his charge’s form.

He eased Dick’s body onto the backseat, laying the man down and ushering a blanket over and up to his shoulders. Dick fell asleep quickly, easily losing the battle to the car’s gentle rocking, the engine and Jason’s softened tones an odd but effective lullaby. Jason spared glances when he could, quickly falling into the routine of snapping his head back over his shoulder whenever the road straightened enough to allow. He smiled, a relieved sigh shedding the stress from his shoulders as he realised Dick was safely sleeping.  

Sadly that stress didn’t stay away long, its return drawing new lines of worry to his shape an hour later, when Dick’s head snapped up, eyes blown wide and all sanity gone from them, screaming before falling back into the grips of unconscious. Jason doubted he’d ever slam brakes harder in his life.

When he wrenched the blanket away, he found Dick shivering, skin tinted blue, his mouth open, lips working to odd, incoherent rambles that would occasionally jump into startled screeches before dipping back into quietly babbled gibberish. His eyes shot open, staring off ahead at something that wasn’t there, the lids slipping back closed after a beat’s passing.

Cold sweats, fever dreams, hallucinations. It didn’t take a genius to know Dick was in a bad way.

Jason didn’t think. Just reached into his pocket for the small, disposable phone he kept in case of emergency, punched the number into the cell and lifted it to his ear.

“Hey Doc, I need a favour.”

Dr Leslie Thompkins and her miracle (if a little too non-questioning) hands were the reason half the vigilantes in Gotham were still flying. He was a regular at her door, usually showing up in the dead of night and bleeding from ten different bullet holes after a business meet gone wrong. A bed in her surgery was probably as much a home to Jason as any of the ones in his safehouses. If not more, given the frequency he ended up in them.

He liked Dr Leslie. She didn’t pussyfoot around a problem or spew spiels of jargon to rack up bills. And she wouldn’t tell Bruce. Probably. Though he knew she’d definitely disapprove.

He didn’t like having to return to Gotham. Not one bit. But he’d be damned if he handed Dick over to any law-abiding regular hospital. Too many questions would get asked. And he couldn’t risk the government finding out about the mentally-unbalanced, easily manipulated metahuman stashed away in some backwater ward. Bruce and Slade were bad enough. He didn’t even want to think about what people like Amanda Waller would do if they ever found out about Dick.

So he bit the bullet, swerving the jeep – it was a jeep again, one he’d found just lying about in the street, easily broken into and just as easily hotwired, just begging to be borrowed – across the highway, ignoring the angry honks that erupted as cars jerked to a stop just in time to avoid a nasty crash. He didn’t care, blanking the fists shaken in his direction and shouts as windows rolled down, drivers red in the face as they flipped middle fingers, instead slamming his foot down harshly on the pedal, unnerve settling in his stomach as he took them the direction he’d promised never to go again. Back the way they’d come.

…

“It wasn’t me. “ He felt the need to add as Leslie lifted the blanket, revealing the Talon and his injuries in their full glory. It had taken them three days to make it back to Gotham. Three days of nonstop driving. Of slogging through 1ams and 2ams and 3ams on motorways for fear of stopping and encountering a pursuing Talon. Jason hadn’t slept in 72 hours. Large bags dragged at the bottom of his eyes, the spheres cracked raw and bloodshot. And Dick’s condition had grown worse with each night that passed.

His skin was almost a full blue now, looking so much like a smurf that in any other situation Jason would have laughed, been on stitches on the floor and snapped photo after photo to stash away for when next Dick threatened a movie marathon. Jason wasn’t laughing. And the only stitches were the hack job he’d made of Dick’s arm after the delusional hero had clawed his own arm open. He stood on the balls of his feet awkwardly, feeling sick as he remembered all those times they’d fought, when it was him to leave Dick, bruised and battered and unconscious.

Leslie’s brow crept slowly closer to her hairline, one finger gently running over the uneven welt blossomed over Dick’s belly. She hadn’t asked any questions when he’d shown up, nearly throwing the door off its hinges as he barged in, Dick flush against his front, just invited him into the clinic and pointed at the prepared bed. She stood with a sigh, moving her attention to the hero’s face, pulling out a device and cautiously shining the light into blankly staring eyes.  Dick gurgled in response, a whimper escaping as one hand weakly attempted to lift off the bed, probably to bat the torch away.

“Figured.” She clicked her tongue, drawing the light away back into her doctor’s coat pocket. “Wouldn’t make sense for the one tryna kill him to be the one tryna save him.”

“How bad is it?” Jason forced the question, not wanting to know the answer.

“Bad.” She shook her head grimly. “Very bad. By all means he should be dead at least twelve times over. Whatever they dosed him with, it isn’t looking good.”

Jason balked. His heart as broken as his voice. “Can you fix him?”

Leslie reached for her glasses, pulling them off the brink of her nose. She snapped the sides into place, sliding them to hook over her breast pocket. “I’ll do my best. But it might be time to phone a friend.”

…

Jason pumped the shotgun, clutching it over his knee as he glared out the window. His Eagles were abandoned on the floor by his feet, their ammo long gone. His jacket lay with them, ruined by the same tear that had forced the cotton binding at his side. The rips in his jeans were no longer a fashion statement, the cuts across his legs still lazily bleeding. The phone on the ledge crackled, static and breathing, signalling that both Dick and Leslie were still safely tucked away in the Doctor’s office.

“Come on you bastards, I know there’s more of you out there.” His eyes searched through the darkness, as if daring an attacker to pop out of the shadows.

“Do I even want to ask?” Tim asked as he dropped down from the rafters wearily. Jason wasn't surprised. Gotham was Bruce's city. Of course he would know when Jason returned. If anything he was shocked at who, and how long it had taken for them to show. He'd been expecting a Bat. Just not this one.  

“Super powered assassins.” Jason answered without turning from his lookout. He tossed a lighter over to the boy with the same level of enthusiasm. “Cut their heads off and burn them or they’ll just get back up.”

Tim caught it, turning it over once in his hands then chucked it back. “I’m not killing-“

“They’re already dead.” Jason growled over, repeating the throw. He didn’t have time to argue morals. Not tonight. “Pretty much just reanimated corpses at this point.”

Tim gave a sickened mewl, but this time didn't return the lighter. His shoulders trembled, as if trying to hold in his nausea. “Is that what Dick is?”

“No. He’s not their puppet. Not anymore.”

The thank you was mumbled so quietly Jason wasn’t even sure if he imagined it.

“Bruce wants to see him-“

“Bruce can fuck off.” Jason scowled, his voice rising. “This is a temporary truce. As soon as we’re done here I’m taking Dick and leaving.”

“Please Jace." God, Jason could actually  _hear_ the boy's soft droopy eyes turn wide with pleading. "Take him to the manor, let us help him.”

“Tt, like _Todd_ would ever understand human decency.”

Jason sighed. Wheeling round from the window to face Tiny, Dark and Murderous. Damian was looking better than the last time he’d seen him. Though there was a sizable bruise blooming out the side of his head and the area around his nose was swollen a deep purple, the line noticeably more crooked.

“Great, you brought the Brat.”

“Hello to you too, _brother._ ” Damian sneered.

“Not helping, Damian.” Tim growled warningly.

“It wasn’t meant to.” The Robin growled, turning his attention from Tim to Jason, blade surprisingly sheathed. His cape swished, billowing behind him as he strode forward, quickly closing the distance.

Jason stared, mouth gawking open in disbelief, his cheek still stinging from where Damian had slapped him. Twice.

“That was for the docks. That was for the safehouse. And this is for keeping Grayson without informing me.”

“Us.” Tim corrected sourly from across the room, right as Damian stomped down, expression triumphant and eyes hiding a murderous vehemence, as hard as possible, on Jason’s foot.

Jason growled, swiping a hand to cuff the boy across the head – fuck his no hitting kids’ policy – but Damian had already wisely ducked out of range, bounding up, practically radiating smugness as he perched at the end of a gurney with all the superiority as if it were some golden gilded thrown.

“Where is Grayson? I wish to see him.”

Jason laughed scornfully. “Like I’m letting some bratling like you see him.” His eyes shifted uneasily back to the window, to the sky. “Where’s Daddy?”

Tim shuffled his feet as he stared at the floor, suddenly the epitome of social awkwardness. “Joker’s still loose. He’s threatened to blow up the GCPD.”

Joker. Bruce had picked Joker over Dick. Jason’s fist itched to hit something. Preferably a wall. Or Bruce’s smug asshole face.

“So B can’t even spare a moment for his own son?”

“Lives are on the line. Father made a call.” Damian hissed. Though his voice was lacking any of its usual confidence, a line of doubt creeping in and Jason had to wonder if the sidekick was just as pissed off at Bruce’s choice. He knew the brat was enamoured with the elder brother, if their roles had been reversed, would Damian have chosen Dick over the lives of strangers?

He didn’t have to look past the genocidal eyes obsessively searching the beds in the hopes that a dying Grayson might suddenly materialise on one to reach an answer.

"Bruce wanted to-" Tim finally remembered how to speak, but whatever he'd been about to say was suddenly cut off to Jason's hurried shushing.

“Heads up.” He growled in warning, lifting the finger off his lips, letting off a round of fire as the first shape detached itself from the shadows and threw itself through the window. “Here comes round two.”


	24. Under Attack

Tim didn’t know what he’d been expecting when he’d dropped down to face Jason, but it certainly wasn’t an army of undead, super powered assassins. The ranks of which Tim was learning his own brother might have deserted. Rather worryingly, Dick wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and even more worryingly Jason looked in a bad way. No, he didn’t look bad; he looked as if he’d just spent an hour locked in a closet with the boy who had been promising his agonising, excruciating end from existence ever since the speed cameras had caught that first flash of emerald eyes under brittle white streak. His eyes were swollen and dragged down in droopy circles so baggy Alfred had probably carried the last weekly groceries shop back to the manor in them. He’d abandoned his jacket and the crimson-dyed t-shirt made a poor job of hiding the soaked through linen swaddling his sides. Rolls of empty ammunition were scattered at his feet and he was leaned up against the window, lips cracked open to constant pain, like it hurt just to breathe.

He winced when Damian slapped him, but didn’t say anything. Damian had the temper of a rabid wolverine and god knows Tim couldn’t ever pull back on that leash, not like Dick could. Robin whispering, very much still missing Dick Grayson. Besides, part of him wanted to see Jason hurt, wanted to see retribution for the betrayal, for knowing where Dick was and not telling, a month, a whole month. Maybe longer. And then running. Maybe Jason hadn’t murdered Dick, but kidnapping an amnesiac was almost as bad as killing him would have been.

“Where is Grayson? I wish to see him?” Damian ducked the hands aiming for the back of his head, slipping out of range and clambering to sit haughty-faced on the end of a hospital bed. Tim opened his mouth, was about to chime in his own interest to the AWOL hero’s whereabouts, when Jason laughed something downright insane. His face darkened, passing into rage, the kind he’d only ever seen before when the vigilante talked about Bruce. Curiosity killed the cat but regular old people didn’t have nine lives and Tim decided right then and there on the spot that his own wasn’t worth a bullet to the face.

 “Like I’m letting some bratling like you see him.” Jason paused, suddenly shifting, his eyes flitting to watch out the window, nervous. “Where’s Daddy?”

And there it was. The question that would 99% of a possibility end up with a dead Tim Drake. Tim’s head swung, hoping that maybe Damian would continue his run of suicidal tendency and take the floor, but no, for the first time in history the brat was holding his silence, eyes shifty, as guilty as he was. Suddenly the floor was looking very appealing.

“Joker’s still loose. He’s threatened to blow up the GCPD.” He mumbled quietly.

Tim waited for the pain, he’d been shot plenty before, he knew exactly what to expect. But there was no agony, no searing fire suddenly set alight under his skin, and there was no explosion, no sudden crack of shot, the only sound Jason’s heavy breathing as his temper caught like a gasket someone had just lit a match to.

“So B can’t even spare a moment for his own son?” Jason hissed and if there was ever a time for Tim to be shot it was now, the man in front of him trembling with rage as his fingers crawled up over the shotgun’s trigger.

 “Lives are on the line. Father made a call.”

Tim had already started internally depicting his will, had finished the third line and was just starting on the fourth, when Damian piped up, glaring a challenge.

"Bruce wanted to-" Tim started, but his own contribution was cut off as Jason jerked, flinching back as if he’d been the one shot, his head snapping back to the window as hands readied the shotgun into position.

“Heads up.” He snarled cryptically. “Here comes round two.”

Tim just had time to wonder what the hell he was talking about – what round two? What was coming? – when the night sky exploded.

…

Jason wasn’t about to admit that he needed help. He’d never fess up to feeling horribly overrun, even with the (unnecessary) backup. And he certainly wasn’t about to admit the worry in his eyes when Tim went down in a dogpile of three Talons and flash of relief when he rose back up, launching back into the battle with renewed ferocity and tripping the trio with a well-timed swipe of staff. The Batbrain turned his back, thinking the fight over but it wasn’t enough and it was only to years of experience dodging henchmen bullets that he kept his head. Batarangs lodged in armour, explosions popping off like corked open champagne bottles, and the next time the Talons fell they disappeared in a burst of hungry, if a little regretful flame. But there were so many and soon the teen was gone, swallowed up to another two Talons who had quickly taken their fallen comrades’ place. Despite the overwhelming numbers against the batbrood were winning. Years spent with Bruce breathing down your back tended to make perfection in the field a necessity and on the other side of the fight the Talons were all moving slow, their swipes sluggish and healing factors delayed. Jason would have to thank Dick later, if it wasn't for his intel and the thermostat's flooding the clinic into the new Antartica then they'd all have been dead in minutes. 

Jason grimaced as the corner of his eye watched Damian fall to the floor to a kick square in the ribs –the crunch of bone so loud he could hear it even from across the room – only for the boy to immediately clamber up, springing into the air to run up the Talon’s arm and delivering a bone-breaking kick of his own. The Talon’s head lasted all of twenty seconds before it rolled on the tile, the rest of the body toppling slowly after it. Unlike Tim, Damian had no qualms about kill strikes or arson; barely sparing a glance at the fallen foe – now bonfire – before moving onto the next. Jason yelped, his focus lifting from the kid ducking and weaving, dancing out of the way of throwing knives that thudded into walls inches from where he’d last been standing, to the Talon currently lunging for his ribs.

With a manly yelp he threw his body back, the knife aimed for his belly just nicking the edge of his t-shirt instead.  Maybe it was the rage at Bruce for abandoning his own son for strangers, maybe it was worry for Dick, defenceless and dying only one room away, but Jason felt adrenaline burst through his veins. Like hell was he getting defeated by some b-list owl-brained kook in an all leather one-piece. He ignored the protest of his muscles, pushing through the pain and dragging the shotgun level, the snapback of recoil jerking the weapon back, his body too exhausted to fight the movement and instead giving in, letting it take him out of range of those swiping hands. Emptied cartridges pelted the tops of his feet, the Talon staggering backwards, a hand reaching to the side of shattered goggles, plucking glass fragments from the rimmed circle. He tossed the now useless weapon to the side, taking advantage of the Talon’s momentary confusion and launching himself forward, lighter sparking open as he thrust it towards the masked face.

The Talon shrieked at the sight, both hands now rising to cover its eyes but Jason ignored them, the screams only building as he held the flame to the uniform, sparks of red and orange dancing as if alive as they twisted free of the metal shell and raced, up limbs and leather, gleefully climbing to wrap a noose around clothed neck and dance atop the owl beak, smouldering, puffs of smog curling off the form as it backed away, stumbling before with a horrendous screech plunging back through the window it had come.

There wasn’t time to celebrate his victory though, because no sooner had that one disappeared then another one was in its place, except this time Jason had no weapon, no energy, no way of defending himself.

He stared up into the advancing amber eyes of death, a hand raggedly holding his stomach as his vision blurred to an out of focus camera lens.

He decided, hazily through the wall of agony as he rolled on the floor in a puddle of his own life, gasping for breath, that yeah, he was royally fucked.

…

To say Damian wanted Red Hood’s head was an understatement. Damian wanted the head of Jason Todd severed from his body, scalped, with red hot needles pushed through each eye socket and hoisted on a spike in the manor gardens for him to admire from his window each night before he fell asleep. One slap and two (much deserved) foot stomps would not suffice. But revenge for his Grayson would have to wait. And it was his Grayson. If Damian couldn't have rule over all of mankind he should at least be allowed to hold reign over one certain individual. Dick Grayson was _his_ Batman, Bruce may still wear the costume but Damian would always be Dick’s Robin. It was Dick who’d mentored him, Dick who’d defended him when he let his temper get the better of him, Dick who had celebrated his birthday by making a cake instead of having one imported from a bakery (an absolute disaster that had very nearly caused the death of Batman but the thought was appreciated nonetheless), Dick who every morning had held him in the embrace of a full size adult grizzly in front of a screen playing childish but slightly humorous animations.  

Todd, who had made countless attempts on Nightwing’s life, who had ended him unconscious and injured in hospital wards on numerous occasion, who had slammed the door in the face of kindness and his most unacceptable crime, even led Grayson to _cry_ for a family he couldn’t bring together, did not deserve any part of him.

But the man who had staggered through the doorway, swaying on his feet looking as if he were about to take one step and collapse, blinking tiredly before lunging for the assassin pinning Todd down, knife aimed above his heart, was not his Grayson. This man was a stranger.

Damian stared, his confidence faltering as Grayson, the man who had held his hand and cried tears when Damian talked about his training as a child, the hero he had seen risk his own life to save the criminal scum who seconds before had aimed a gun at his head, the kind, compassionate, soft-hearted Grayson, flew past him without a glance, moving across the room so fast his body blurred, and threw the enemy off Jason and into the wall, not sparing even a moment before his hand was around the assassin’s neck, slamming his head repeatedly into the structure until the surface was slippery and stained behind a blackened crimson.  Five slams later and the other hand came up, circling round the throat before snapping the neck like a wishbone.

Hands opened and the corpse dropped, landing with a dull thud at bare blue-mottle feet. Damian had never thought himself faint-hearted, but he felt a burst of nausea, had to look away, his stomach rolling and he was sure he’d be throwing the three courses of Alfred’s cooked breakfast up in his bathroom after debriefing, as Grayson leaned down, looming over the body and plunged a hand into the unmoving chest, fingers rummaging around then withdrawing bloody, but not before muscles had flexed to a sickening squelched pop.

Grayson straightened, and Damian felt a spark of hope kindle through his despair, only for the tiny flame to sputter out, a new chill taking its place as unrecognising eyes stared right past him.

Damian felt a new surge of murderous tendency as he looked at Grayson, what on earth had Todd done to him? Once golden perfectly tan skin was now a pale, frostbitten tinged blue, streaks of veins cutting through the ghostly canvas burnt an unhealthy beetle black.  The mop of tamed midnight had been tangled out of place and morphed an obnoxious mustard, the clean cut style dead to shaggy straggles of ends now brushing the tops of his shoulders. But the worst were his eyes, the Aegean seas so clear and blue you could almost sail in, glowed ferocious amber. The same ferocious amber of the inhuman zombies they were fighting.   

Any piece of mercy, any thought that maybe the man half dead in a lake of his own life force had earned his comeuppance died as realisation dawned.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Damian turned to face Hood, ignoring the pain that reared up in his stomach from the action, his face a mask of unbridled fury. Off to the side he could hear Tim yelping, the teen already starting to run towards them but Damian knew he would be too far away, would never reach him in time, as he raised his katana, pointing it to its new target.

His mind was a hive of activity, all focused on the one thing. 

“I’ll fucking hang your head above my bed, Todd!” He screeched, rage washing over as tiny droplets of what he told himself weren’t tears pricked specks of dust to scratch and irritate in his eyes.


	25. Containment

Well he wasn’t dead. That was always good. Jason’s laugh quickly turned to a string of colourful swears as cracked open eyes scanned the definitely not Dr Leslie’s clinic ceiling. He blinked, looking around the room. Well, room was giving it too much credit. The three metre by three metre floor plan was a straight up box, the cramped cave walls pressing him in and barely reaching a metre past his head doing nothing to shatter that conclusion. Containment cell. They’d put him in a bloody containment cell. Probably because something irresponsible something non-cooperative something anger issues blah blah blah. Which was bullshit. He’d be plenty cooperative if they just did what he wanted and left him the fuck alone. It was a good thing Tim was nowhere in sight, because the next time Jason saw him the sidekick the little ass was getting a (well deserved) fist in the face.

_“Sorry about this,” Tim apologised, sounding not at all sorry as he loomed over, his body occupying all of Jason’s fading vision. Sadness drooped his eyes behind the mask as he raised his bo and the back of Jason’s skull blossomed into blistering pain, momentary fire dizzying his vision and splitting his head open. He reeled, briefly caught in the landslide of hurt before everything mercifully, turned into a blissful black nothing._

Jason massaged his temples, hissing in pain as fingers slid round to linger on the golf-sized lump swelling out the side of his skull. He gingerly sat up, giggling a little at their stupidity for not tying him up to the table. (Uncooperative. He’d give them fucking uncooperative) He slid himself off the bed they’d shoved him on, swaying slightly as his feet remembered how to balance. He wasn’t exactly the lightest and he really hoped they’d struggled with his dead weight. Good. Hopefully Damian put his back out trying to lift his unconscious ass. No one would argue the little shit didn’t deserve it. The only one who ever would was probably locked up somewhere in one of the other cells. No way was the Paranoid and Paranoider letting an ex-brainwashed vigilante run free round the Cave. And if they thought Jason wasn't cooperative then he couldn’t wait to see what they made of an amnesiac Talonised Dick. The man could be a million times more stubborn. And now a million times more violent. (Sure, Jason had a short fuse but he’d never tried to murder a guy for putting too much salt on his fries. At least, not yet.) And the elder probably wasn't feeling too happy to be back in the one place he’d been dead set on never returning.

_Dick screeched, sounding disturbingly like a cornered animal. Tim offered his own nervous bray as Damian charged into a sprint, katanna balanced in one hand and stretched out behind him, barrelling towards Jason only to be met by the hurled body of Dick Grayson, the Talon throwing himself at the boy so hard they both went tumbling to the floor._

_“Get off me Grayson.” Damian ordered, shouting demands as he writhed, as if hoping to somehow worm his way from the impossibly strong hold. His legs pedalled, kicking against the floor like a four year old throwing a temper tantrum. His efforts faltered, ego deflating as the man on top of him gave no let up, the legs pinning him in place preventing him from standing as fingers Jason had seen snap necks like dead twigs gripped the blade, thin leaks of blood smearing the metal dirty as it inched nearer and nearer to Damian’s throat._

_“Jason.” Jason’s fading conscious was dimly aware of Tim scrambling over the fallen bodies of Court zombies towards the pair, bleating nervously. “Jason call him off.”_

“Dick,” He called softly, stretching his limbs to life as he padded over to the cell’s glass wall. Fire proof, bullet proof, pretty much everything proof. He’d had plenty of experience escaping from it; somehow all of the batbrats had the same thing for not sticking round for medicals and Bruce had stashed him in the room often enough after patrols until Alfred was ready to conduct checks. He ran fingers experimentally over the glass, grimacing as his efforts were rewarded by a sharp buzz of electricity. Not life threatening, more a warning. He scowled, drawing his hand back. Figured they’d had an upgrade since he’d last been in one of these.

“Dick are you there?”   

He didn’t expect a response. Maybe Tim or Damian to come running (and when they did you could be sure he’d do every damn thing possible to earn that uncooperative title) and start up the second Spanish Inquisition – which was all very cliché and expected. What wasn’t was the answering loud thud (that sounded suspiciously like someone throwing their entire body at a glass wall) and the wounded mewl of “Jay?” floating down the corridor.

Almost instantly Jason perked, then just as suddenly his face fell. So Dick was here. And it was all his fault they’d got him.

_“Dick.” Tim’s voice was so sharp it could cut glass as he hovered over Jason’s body. Jason’s very vulnerable, undefended and bleeding out body. “Talon.” He coughed, the name seeming to catch in his throat as Dick’s head swung up, eyes snapping out of their bloodlust as the scene registered. “We need to get him help now or he’s going to die.”_

_Again. Everything hurt as Jason wheezed out a laugh. Maybe it was the blood loss or maybe he’d finally lost his marbles. It was only a matter of time; after all who did he hang around with? An angsty teen wannabe stalker, a kid assassin, an acrobat with a movie obsession and a man who spent his nights out running round rooftops dressed as a rodent._

_“We can help him.” Tim continued, voice lowered and gentle as he inched towards Jason. “Back at the Cave, there’s medical supplies. We can stop the bleeding. Save him.”_

_“There is help here.” Dick’s voice was strangely raw with emotion, normally robotic tone tinged frantic with something like worry._

_“Here isn’t safe. But,” Tim paused, eyeing the window through which the last of the monsters had fled at Dick's entrance. “You’ll need to come with us.”_

Jason shivered, grunting as the bottom left of his stomach exploded. He looked down, for the first time since waking finally taking the time to actually inspect the damage he’d taken during the Talon fight. Someone had changed his shirt; by now the old, bloodstained tee was either in the batwasher or incinerator. Probably the same person who had swapped the bandages clumsily tacked over his sides for expertly applied fresh cotton.  

The same thump. And by now Jason was sure Dick was throwing himself at the glass in an effort to get out. He’d been imprisoned for eight weeks when the Court took him. Jason would personally like to thank whoever had the brilliant idea to imprison him again now. Preferably with the back end of a loaded gun. God knows what Dick was going through now.

Because of him.

Jason’s throat dried up, the rock in his stomach suddenly gaining ten pounds as it let its presence be known.

“Jason?” Another thud. Dick shouted out again, his quiet voice desperate.

“Yeah, I’m here Dickie.” Jason called back, the words dead ash on his tongue as he fought down the wave of nausea threatening to pull him under.  Reassure Dick first, deal with crippling self-hate later.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be out of here soon.” He promised, staring straight at the camera, hoping Tim or Damian was watching, and meaning every single word.

 …

Talon did not let them take Jason. He refused to let them go near the man, not after the older of the two had slammed their weapon into his Jason’s head. It was an unnecessary move. Jason was already defenceless. He did not need to be further incapacitated. _Insurance_ , they had called it. For his cooperation. But Talon still found a particular hatred burning for the one who had delivered the blow. He could barely remember the ghost of a boy. Gangly limbs. Tired eyes. A puppyish grin breaking his face as he sat cross legged on the floor at the foot of a plush couch, tinkering away with the remnants of an old laptop.

_Tim._

He did not let them take the Hood. Instead he was the one to scoop the unconscious form off the ground, refusing to give his treasure up even as they climbed into the seat of the machine he had been ordered never to go near. Not yet. Sleek body. _Sick paintjob._ His thoughts whispered as he forced one foot in front of the other, stomach rolling sickly as he slid into the seat. _Batmobile._ The child next to him – Damian. Snatches of the youth, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips as a hand passed over the head of a massive hound, a voice splitting the silence of settled evening darkness, begging him not to go as the same tiny hand now tugged at the end of his shirt. But they were snatches, broken, half-ripped polaroid’s that faded from his mind just as suddenly as they faintly supplied, scattering away on the winds of gaping black holes until all he was left with were the clutches of memory slipping through fingers, a feeling of emptiness and a name on his tongue. Damian scowled as he brushed stray hair from Jason’s eyes; sitting with arms folded all the way back, the limbs falling out from their cage only to open the car door. He had disappeared quickly, tiny body swallowed up by shadows in the same way that Jason could simply vanish from sight in the briefest moment. It wasn’t as quick as Talon, but he found the feat was still impressive.

The Cave as they called it, felt oddly familiar, a strange tug in his gut swelling at the flap of birds - not birds,  _bats_ \- overhead. Talon's head jerked to a shiver he had failed to suppress. If his audience noticed they made no comment.

He had protested when _Tim_ had tried to grab Jason, backing down and only letting the grey haired elder that had appeared just as suddenly as Damian had disappeared take him out of his arms when they reminded him Jason was dying and he couldn’t help.  They had held the man hostage as he’d known they would as soon as the two of them were separated. The butler had led him, even politely held the door to the room, _prison_ open for him, dismay dragging his feet like blocks of lead as he slipped past. There had been no argument, no order. It was a silent demand that he comply, the fact that Jason’s welfare depended on it an unspoken warning.  They had not shackled his ankles or cuffed his hands. They had not pinned his limbs to his sides and strapped him to cold metal. There were no bars, and they had dimmed the lights an hour after he had first entered (possibly sensing the discomfort the bulbs had caused). They had held the door and he had entered willingly. But it was a cage nonetheless.

His eyes burnt, scratchy and irritated even in the adjusted light. But he didn’t tell them. He'd lost the glasses Jason had gifted him - something he was still waiting to be punished for - but he didn't ask for a replacement. He refused to speak or move, or give any signs of being alive to whoever was watching through the cameras he had already identified (one in each corner, another two embedded in the wall behind the glass). He could smash them. Rebel against his imprisonment. But Jason would be punished for it. So he sat on his heels, hands flat, palm down over his knees, silently glaring at the camera screen in front of him.

He did not move. If he had it would be to pace his prison, stalk and stride like a trapped predator, examine the length of the chain they had allowed. But he found he couldn’t, resigned himself to the life of a statue for fear that any action would cause the damn of overwhelming fear that had enveloped, chipping away his composure as walls closed in, suffocatingly close, the air chokingly heavy as it invaded his lungs, to burst free.

His breath faltered, catching in his throat. He was back at the Court, they had failed, they had been caught and he was back at the Court, caged away and waiting to be punished. He listened for steps, his handlers would come, throwing the door open to drag him down winding halls in a maze so large it hurt his head. They would bring lashes if they were feeling merciful. Ice water if they were not. Darkness crept into the walls, leeching into the world as the cell spun sickly on an axle, harsh bite of winter chill already gnawing away as flesh that would soon be buried in a coffin of ice struggled to stay still.

He did not move, face betraying nothing but his hatred for his jailers. Totally unreadable of any of the pain behind the mask. Until he heard Jason.

“Dick?”

“Jay?”

Talon shivered, coming alive to the voice, one of many that had haunted so many nights of similar confinements, that had echoed in the emptiness of his mind as he sat, locked away to a different cage, any discipline and wariness of showing weakness to these new captors forgotten as thoughts sky rocketed, all focused on one thing.

Jason had saved Talon.

Talon would save Jason.

Standing was not a matter of thought. He did not think as he rose to his feet, did not spare a moment to consider or plan. He did not care if they watched. He had counted the time it had taken for the butler to walk him from the car to the cell. Even at a sprint they would not be able to reach him in time.

The glass did not give. Talon’s side stung, protesting fiercely as he reeled back. Perhaps they had electrocuted it. Talon did not care, he had had worse.

As if in reply, the pain in his back, normally silent in its slumber, flared briefly.

Talon uttered a growl. Then threw himself back into the pane, white spots dancing in his vision as the now angrily hissing wall exploded into blistering agony.

…

Amber eyes. Dick had amber eyes. (And blonde hair and vampire skin and who knows how many chemicals pumping in his veins) Sharp at the edges. Feral and animalistic. Carrying the same murderous rage he had seen back at Leslie’s clinic. Amber eyes and no pulse. The bugs in the cell didn’t lie. Dick was supposed to be very, very dead. Except he was walking. And talking. And didn’t remember any part of his old life except the brought back from dead ex-criminal overlord brother whose hobby included laser tag and shooting robbers in the kneecaps. It was a mess. A horrible terrible mess that once again had been left for Tim to try and clean up before Bruce arrived. He exhaled slowly.

He found himself unable to look away from the man on the screen. His brother who hadn’t moved since he’d entered, dropped to the floor, folded his body in two and sat glaring at the camera. His appearance may have changed but the amnesiac still moved with the same effortless grace as the acrobat who had tousled his hair after nearly burning the kitchen down trying to make him toast.

He groaned, forcing his eyes off the sitting figure to the second screen as Jason slid off the bed they’d dumped him on to examine the glass front. Fingers tapped the pane before he jerked; his body holding together like a tightly coiled gun spring. Tim could quite easily imagine who he wanted to shoot. He scrunched his eyes, a sigh of exasperation escaping his lips as Jason found the cameras and flipped him the bird. Now that he was up (and screaming for Dick) he really should go talk to him. And yet his feet remained firmly on the floor, hands playing nervous rhythms on the top of the desk. He should but in all honesty he wasn’t looking forward to seeing his future murderer.

“Dick? Dick are you there?”

It was almost how touching Jason sounded. Tim didn’t think Red Hood had a sympathetic bone in his body, but apparently the beloved first Boy Wonder had wormed a way into whatever part of heart Jason still had left. But then he remembered Jason had dealt with his newfound emotional side by taking Dick unannounced on a road trip nearly halfway across the country. His face hardened, any love for Red Hood sorely lost.

“Jay?” Dick sounded equally as worried, plaintive even.

It was just his luck that Dick chose that moment to, putting it simply, lose his collective shit. Tim wasn’t superstitious (he was a firm believer in the idea that everything could be explained by science and hard, cold, fact) but he found himself wondering if he’d cracked a mirror or walked in front of a black cat at some point in the last week as Dick’s eyes rolled madly, a strangled cry piercing his silence as he leapt to his feet, slamming his body against the glass and shouting his head off for Jason.

Damian was nowhere in his sight. The Robin hadn't waited for the usual medical, instead he'd stalked off up the steps (still in costume) before the Batmobile’s engine had even fully died. He was probably in his room. Sulking. Tim couldn’t blame him really. He’d been fighting the urge to crawl into bed and hide under the covers for the last six and a half hours. He’d been pushing mental breakdown all week, pretty much ever since he’d seen Dick (amber eyes and no pulse dead Dick) and then the next day caught Damian drawing up plans for Red Hood’s unfortunate ‘accident’.

Alfred had exiled himself to the kitchen, dealing with the stress the same way the butler did, throwing himself wholeheartedly into supplying some seventy course banquet that would last the Wayne household all of seventy seconds.

And Bruce…what would Bruce do?

Batman was still out in the city, his homing blip zigzagging manically around Amusement Mile. He didn’t like it. The whole place shouted of the Joker. Maybe it was how far the maniac could push Bruce to the very edge unlike any of his other gallery of rogues, or maybe it was because the clown had been the only one to actually kill a Bat, but Tim's anxiety would peak to existential crisis levels whenever the two locked horns. 

Tim’s shoulders slumped, the teen shrinking in on himself, fingers drumming away at the desk, climbing louder and louder as Dick threw himself again and again, not seeming to give a damn about the wall’s electric defences. He silenced a curse, the desk chair screeching as he abruptly stood, hurrying away from the panel, worry speeding the echoing slap of feet on floor as he raced to confront his brother before he electrocuted himself. His shoulders hunched together, face drawn to pain as he answered his own question.

Bruce was going to kill him.


	26. (Un)Happy Families

What with dealing with a furious Jason, an amnesiac Dick and a sulking, non-existent Damian, Tim was really beginning to regret rolling out of bed this morning. Seeing Dick in that state had been hard. Flooding the room with sleeping gas had been even harder. The look of betrayal on his face, the broken acceptance of his fate in his eyes, the mournful turn of lips, like he wasn’t angry, just _disappointed_. Tim’s insides twisted and squirmed as the door of the cell opened with a quiet hiss. And it didn’t help that getting to the cell they were keeping Dick in had meant running past Jason’s. Any hopes that the Red Hood had been coming round, maybe even starting to like his replacement, had been promptly dashed by one glare. One furious glare that promised when Jason got out the first thing he would do was hunt down the sidekick and roast his head on a spit.

Tim’s breath fluttered nervously as his heart hammered. Bruce’s trademarked Batglare had some serious competition.

He stepped in, cautiously, one foot slowly after the other, testing the water, ready to sprint away at the soonest sign of shark’s fin. A flood of relief eased the tension from his shoulders as the form remained completely still, no feral Dick Grayson leaping off the ground to lunge for his legs. Only for those same shoulders to tighten and hunch as he properly took in the man sprawled on the floor. _Okay Timothy Drake. It’s just your brother. Possibly dead, wants to murder you brother. You can do this. Just grab a sample and get out._ Something told him Dick wouldn’t be down long. Nor would he be happily lining up for medical anytime soon.

A gut-wrenching sob bubbled in his throat as he knelt, running a hand over bone white skin. He grimaced at how cold it was, _like a corpse_. He immediately recoiled at the thought. Then forced himself to steady his balance, plucking a syringe out of his pocket and holding the needle to Dick’s arm, easing it in as gently as he could.  It slipped in with little resistance and-

Great. Add to his worries sticky black substance of unknown origin. That that had come out of Dick’s body in place of blood meant he needed to run some serious tests. And ASAP.

He stood, trying to force Dick’s image out of his mind as he hurried out. He glanced Jason’s way as he went past, and immediately regretted it. The man growled something unintelligible, stopping his pacing to stand perfectly still, waiting until he had Tim’s full attention to draw a finger in a line across his throat. Tim paled. All of Bruce’s gallery of rogues paled in comparison to one angry Jason Todd on the rampage. He looked away, guilty-faced as wobbly knees carried him down the corridor. The syringe, despite its small stature, felt like a block of lead in his hands.

Five minutes later and Tim was staring at the Batcomputer, unable to look away. He’d been right about the chemicals.  Digoxin and sodium cyanide and tabun and some weird non-identifiable others. He didn't know what worried him more. The amount of cyanide pumping through Dick's veins or that there were toxins not even the Batcomputer could recognise. All of them extremely harmful, probably even poisonous. At the least a definite safety hazard. Dick’s blood was full of them. Tim had said the Cave could fix Dick. But he was beginning to think whatever whoever had taken him had done to their brother was impossible to reverse. Dick was, for all intense and purposes, dead. (And Tim point blank refused to be the one to sit down Damian and tell him no he could not throw their brother into a Lazarus Pit. Yes, even if Jason had gone through the same and returned with a level of relative sanity). No pulse to speak of, skin cold as ice, hell, Tim wasn’t even sure Dick needed to survive on oxygen anymore.

He scrubbed crusts of dried sleep from his eyes, resisting the urge to bang his head off the desk and instead tiredly turning computerized DNA strands over once more. The entire structure had somehow been altered into something reminiscent of human, but at the same time, something indisputably not. The strands were now more in line with something from their database of humans metas, closer to their knowledge of Static or The Flash. But he was pretty sure Dick didn’t get struck by lightning at any time in his disappearance. Joker Venom and Fear Toxin were both off the table. Although something cooked up by Ivy was still a possibility. But there were no traces of any of the chemicals associated with the femme fatale or any of her hideouts in Dick’s bloodstream. Maybe a new villain? Tim huffed, leaning back in his seat. Now was really not the time for a new threat to show themselves. Especially one who was this versed in chemistry. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, frowning. This was science on a level he’d never seen before. Reanimation almost on a supernatural level.

 _Come on, you’re the detective dammit, detect!_ He ran through all the facts, scoured every corner of the computer, pulling up every shred of data they had from Dick’s original disappearance to the present, but it was no good. They’d found the hero with Jason but Jason (Much to Damian’s chagrin he was sure) definitely wasn’t the one who’d taken him.  Then there was the army of undead killers that had been after Jason and Dick. Which still didn’t explain why Dick couldn’t remember anyone but Jason or how he’d ended up with the man who less than two months ago couldn’t even be in the same room as him for longer than five minutes without drawing a firearm. Then there was the call that Jason had made a few weeks ago about some book. Carver's missing body in Gotham Cemetery. Something linked Alton Carver, Dick Grayson and all those other names Jason had parroted down the line together. But what? It was like someone had handed him a jigsaw with all the corner pieces missing, but still expected him to solve it. He hated feeling so, so, so useless! He pulled at the ends of his hair, nearly growling aloud in exasperation. _Who the hell had taken Dick and what the fuck had they done to him?_

There was a horrible moment of dread, hacks of choked breaths and blurred vision heralding each stage of anxiety attack hinging on the entire mental breakdown, when he found similarities between Dick’s blood and their records of Deathstroke’s ACTH deriviative altered, and wasn’t that a terrible thought – someone out there with the power and knowhow to create an entire army of terminators – but it passed quickly when one element didn’t quite match up to Deathstroke’s mad scientist serum and he resolved to put all thoughts of Slade Wilson out of his mind. Unfortunately that was a matter easier said than done and the mercenary’s shadow loomed over his shoulder like the grim reaper himself as he continued his research long into the early hours of morning.

He sputtered, jerking awake from where he’d fallen asleep over the console, head bobbing up, outline of keys printed across his forehead, as the Batcylce zoomed into the Cave.  Barely had the engine died when Bruce had hopped out, face thunderous. Tim gulped as he strode forward, stumbling with the slightest limp hampering the left leg. His eyes widened, skittering over the costume, making a mental note to self not to ask about the rips haphazardly torn open across the front and the lingering reek of still smouldering acid. Damian, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen. How long that would stay that way though, Tim didn’t know.

“B.” He greeted, sitting up in his seat a little straighter.

Batman raised hands to his cowl, lifting the hood from his face. Bruce’s tired eyes stared back. “Where is he?”

Tim thought mournfully of duck down duvet and goose feather pillows. He blinked. Nope, still the same Cave walls. Still the same half-dead Bruce looking back at him with the desperate, haunted expression of a rabbit caught in the headlights.  

He sighed, standing slowly.

“Come with me.”

…

“Dick.”

The name was a hoarse choke. Tim found it strange, alien to hear in Bruce’s voice. Even stranger was the show of emotion when Bruce gingerly lifted a hand to the glass pane, fingers stretched as if they could reach out and touch the former Boy Wonder. Tim had never seen Bruce look so… defeated. It was like he’d gone back to a time before he’d become Robin, when he’d first found Batman, when Jason had just died.

“Don’t.”

Tim startled himself. The word was an odd repeat of what Jason had said – plead – as he’d led Bruce past, uncharacteristically begging it before characteristically flipping mood and shouting death threats, fuck yous and don’t you dares, jumping off the bunk in the corner and pressing his face against the cell front in the hopes of seeing where they were going.

“I wouldn’t advise going in now. We have no idea how long the effect will last.” The effect from the gas Tim forced down his system. Another curl of guilt hit him like a kick to the solar plexus. “And he doesn’t remember us. Any of us.” Tim paused. “Except Jason.”

 _Except Jason._ The sentence stung. Tim hated to admit it, but he wasn’t just mad at Jason. He was mad at Dick. Mad that his brother had remembered Jason over him. Looked at the man who had tried to kill him (apologised after, but _still_ ), who had shunned him and sneered and pushed him from a damn building, who had tried to horrendously murder not just Dick but all of them, Bruce, Damian and himself included, (No, Tim wasn’t being petty but yes, he still wasn’t over that), and chosen him over his family, over _Tim._ He’d run to Jason not him. He’d even fought him to stay with Jason. And that hurt. That hurt like a bitch. It was like someone had reached inside his chest and delivered electrified escrima sticks right to his heart.

Damian blamed Jason for Dick’s state. In the young boy’s mind he saw Jason guilty of either taking him or failing to protect him. Damian was a hair-trigger waiting to blow. Tim knew better. Jason hadn’t taken Dick (not at first. Jason may be a morally grey, on the side crime lord with slightly psychopathic tendencies and some serious anger management issues but he wasn’t the type to put people through human experimentation). Whatever they’d done to him, Dick Grayson was a people person. Even as an amnesiac super soldier, he needed human contact. So Dick had latched onto the one thing he could remember. Jason.

In that moment, Tim had never hated Jason Todd more.

It was very obvious that he was standing next to Bruce. Batman would not crack, not for anything. Batman’s shoulders would stay perfectly still, the line of his mouth perfectly straight, not moving for anything, not even the sight of his original protégé grievously maimed and pathetically strung out like a broken doll. All that was missing from the corpse was a chalk outline. Tim felt a shred of jealousy curl in his gut. Then he immediately mentally chided himself. Getting emotion from Bruce was like trying to squeeze blood from a stone. But that didn’t mean he was prepared to cut his hands on boulders just to see a smile.

“I’ve run tests. There are traces of flunitrazepam and diphenhydramine in his blood, suggesting long time drug doses. But also presences of digoxin, sodium cyanide, tabun, nandrolone decanoate, lanosterol, corticosterone and several other unidentified chemicals. Its stuff we’ve never even come across. Whoever took him, either it’s an old face learning new tricks, or we’re facing a- ”

“A new threat.” Batman’s jaw moved an iota of an inch, his hand dropping from the glass to disappear into the folds of cape.

“Show me where Jason is.” Bruce’s tired voice instructed wearily after what felt like an eternity.

Tim’s heart skipped a beat to jump into his mouth. “Uh yeah, right away, sir.”

He cringed internally, anxiety gnawing away at his insides as his feet swung, pattering unsteady steps back the way they’d come.

Jason leapt away from the glass as if he’d just been burnt, eyes widening before a dark scowl took the place of surprise. Tim’s fingers twisted nervously over his thighs, playing into random shapes and patterns. He didn’t think it possible, but somehow Jason’s scowl darkened even further, his mouth pulling into a tightened grimace. Tim didn’t have to ask why. Even without looking behind him, he knew. He gulped, unsure whether to leg it screaming down the hall or pull up a seat and ask Alfred to bring a mega size box of salted sweet popcorn.

“What do you know?” Batman demanded coldly.

“Fuck you.” Jason growled. He folded his arms, glaring.

Tim sighed. Unfortunately, he knew Jason. Jason was normally as stubborn as a mule. But when it came to pissing Batman off, Jason was as stubborn as the body of a dead mule blocking a motorway. If Jason didn’t want to talk, then Jason wasn’t going to talk. This was going to get them nowhere. He shifted his weight, setting in for the long haul.

“When I get out of here,” Tim’s pulse skyrocketed as Jason’s narrowed eyes swept off Batman’s to drill lasers into Tim’s. “And I will get out of here,” he promised. “I’m going to use this place as my own personal target range. Might even bag some big game. Or a little bitch.” The corners of Jason’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Run along puppy, mummy and daddy are fighting over their favourite.”

Tim wasn’t one to back down. None of the Robins were. Stubbornness and an inability to listen to any kind of order was sort of the whole part of the job description. But so was running from any fight bubbling between Batman and one of his pissed off protégés. Something that was lately becoming an awkward number of regularly.

He tried not to hang his head in shame as he beat a hasty retreat, cheeks burning as Jason’s laughter hooted down the hallway after him.

He thought of Egyptian silk sheets and fluffy, soft mattresses. And tried to pretend that he wouldn’t be up straight for the next forty four hours, pouring over the computer results in the lab as he desperately tried to cook up some sort of antidote.

If Jason wasn't willing to talk...

Tim scowled, his footsteps picking up speed, the slap of soles on cavern floor echoing the tunnels around him. It was time for him to do a little investigating of his own. And his first stop? Gotham Cemetery.


	27. The Misadventures of Cock Robin

Some days, Jason really wished he’d never crawled out of that coffin. This was one of them.

He folded his arms, leaning against the cave wall, glaring daggers. For once, neither Tim nor Damian were with him, he noted. _Silver linings,_ he thought sourly, nails tightening their grip on his elbows just enough to draw a thin leak of blood.

“Let me see him.”

Opposite, Batman stared ahead calmly. Like all the times Jason saw him, he appeared completely unfazed. As if locking, then interrogating his former sidekick in a prison cell was a regular occurrence. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’m not telling you squat until I see him.” Jason’s teeth flashed a crisp pearl as he sneered.

The whites of Batman’s eye slits narrowed, the slope of his shoulders trembling before they remembered who the asshole that owned them was and resumed their stern, emotionless line. “And you’re not even getting one glance at his shadow until you tell me what happened.”

Jason snarled, just barely resisting turning and slamming one fist against the wall in frustration. Instead, he counted to ten then back in his head, calming the volcanic explosion threatening to erupt before continuing.  “Guess neither of us are getting what we want then.”

The upper of Batman’s lip twisted minutely in what Jason might have guessed disdain. “It appears so.”

Ever the drama queen that demanded attention, Batman whipped stiffly round and swept from the hall, cape billowing at his heels.

As soon as he was gone Jason twisted his body, spinning round to bury a fist into the rock face. He opened his mouth, unleashing the inhuman shriek of anger he’d been holding in ever since he’d woken in the cage.

Jason had never been that good at the whole people thing. He’d never needed affection or acceptance, not like Dick did. Growing up in The Narrows you learned pretty quick that others would only let you down. He didn’t have attachments, he didn’t have any desire to play house and make friends. Jason Todd needed no one.

But now (and Goldie could go fuck himself if he thought Jason would ever admit it aloud) he needed Dick. Not in the way a murderer needed a victim like he had needed the first Robin before, but in the way he felt as if spending another minute without the presence of his not-so-brother would finally be the final in a long trail of nails in the coffin of his insanity.

He needed Dick. Needed that bubble of happiness, that feeling of ecstasy that could only come when he re-introduced the Talon to something he loved. He needed the other, the conversations they shared on the backseat each night in the final minutes before succumbing to sleep, the poor commentary Dick gave over each movie, his old personality shining through to interrupt crucial moments to poke plotholes or slander scripts ( _“Never letting go, huh?” Dick crabbily remarked, his voice a soft murmur in Jason’s ear as one hand rested on Jason’s thigh, the other curled snugly round Jason’s waist. “Well that lasted long.”_ ). He needed Dick’s foot tapping away softly in time to the rhythm whenever a song he liked came on (even if he stubbornly refused to admit it did). He needed refrigerator coolness to combat his own furnace body heat. Jason was a man suffocating and Dick Grayson was the air he needed to breathe. (And dear god, Jason realised, did he have it bad).     

 _I’ll get us out of this, Dickie,_ he promised fiercely, the other fist driving into what he pictured Bruce’s smug asshole face. _Just you see._

…

Not moving from his seat, Talon eyed the tray that had just been pushed into his cell. His insides clamoured, churning up at the stench of cooked meat and vegetables wafting up from the plate. Talon did not need food to survive – hunger was another core weakness the Court had been quick to stamp out – but since staying with Jason he had fallen into the routine, a pleasant, if unnecessary one, of regular meals, and now he found his mouth watering. He poked the contents around the plate with his mind. Excluding the events of the first night, his captors were yet to drug him, though he remained suspicious and the tray remained untouched. Chicken, brilliantly white and roasted with the skin done just enough to brown in perfect crisp. Talon closed his eyes, thinking mournfully of the dishes Jason had so excitedly shoved under his nose – beef, noodles, rice, _ice cream_ \- sorely missing the activity and the man who had smiled so brightly whenever an experimenting spoonful made Talon moan.

Unwillingly, Talon found himself pulled into memory;

_“Open wide.” Jason sang, grinning deviously as he lifted the brown blob held between his thumb and forefinger closer to Talon’s mouth._

_Against his better judgement, Talon obeyed, his lips parting just enough for Jason to place the object gently on the surface of his tongue._

_“Okay,” Jason instructed, pulling his hand back as the other lifted a brick of cell phone and began to film. “Now close it and we have reaction in five, four, three, two, one-“_

_As soon as Jason had finished Talon gasped, unable to contain himself as his mouth was flooded with something warm and gooey. His eyes closed, fluttering as a coo of delight bubbled in his throat._

_Half-mast lids suddenly shot open. “It’s gone!” he exclaimed in dismay, tongue poking the sides of his gums as if hoping to find the elusive warmth. “I’m sorry.” Finding nothing, Talon hung his head in shame. ”I killed it.”_

_“You didn’t kill it.” Jason giggled. “It’s chocolate. It melts. Here,” he paused, lowering the phone to break another slab from the bar sat in his lap. “Want another block?”_

Talon chuffed, resurfacing with a silent broken sob. He missed chocolate, he missed days spent looking out of windows with greens and browns of trees rushing past. He missed badly sung choruses, air guitar solos and nights curled up on backseats pressed into the warmth of another’s body heat.  Most of all, he missed Jason.

His bird was locked in a different cage. Sometimes he would sing loudly, his voice rising as he got into an argument with whoever’s turn it was to grill him for information. Other times the owlet was silent, just the huffs of breath and thrum of heartbeat telling Talon he was alive. It was only by closing his eyes and listening to these, picturing Jason curled safely beside him, pretending that when he opened them Jason would still be there next to him, that Talon was able to fight his panic and despair of being contained.

The whispers of Richard had been growing stronger ever since his arrival, and now more than ever Talon was unsure about his regular visitors. To the best of his knowledge and utmost relief, Batman hadn’t visited. Often times the arguments that broke out in the Cave were between the hero and his sidekicks. _You should see him._ They shouted. _He is your son._

 _That thing in there in not my son._ Batman would growl. For the better - knowing that he had killed and that he had disappointed his former mentor had become a crushing weight that often had Talon struggling to remain calm. He was a monster now, he had no wish to see his teacher's disgust. - Bruce refused to see him. And so Talon’s visitors remained only three. The boy, the teen, and the butler.

There was a warmth and knot of happiness, the white-haired brit who brought him food so far had been the one closest to bringing a smile to Talon’s face.

He had a deep respect for Tim. There was no question, he was incredibly gifted. A true protégé of the Bat. Respect, and the same sense of familiarity. Talon could never bring himself to properly hate the youth, sometimes even mistakenly thinking of the man as brother. And there were aspects of Damian he found undeniably adorable. The bird’s nest of bedhead on each of his 6am visitations that had Talon wanting nothing more to run his fingers and pet through. The way the bottom of his lip twisted into a pout whenever he asked a question only to receive silence. The toss of his head and dismissive ‘Tch’ every time he left. Others Talon found mind-numbingly annoying. The constant use of Grayson as his name. The boy’s constant self-assigned crusade against all things Jason. His insistence to ‘snap out of it’ and rejoin their family. _it would be nice_ , he thought wistfully as the arguing voices of Tim and Damian rang out sharply, cutting through the steady hum of machinery and ranted breaths of a still imprisoned Jason that had come to be a normal. _To have a family like that._

**_You already do._ **

Talon’s face remained impassive, the line of his mouth barely moving as he silenced the voice. Richard was dead, and better off dead. After all, what good would it do for a vigilante who refused to kill to focus on the many lives of women, men, children that he had taken? Unwillingly, but taken all the same. Luckily, as soon as Richard had appeared, he was gone, leaving Talon suddenly feeling wholly alone, with only the slightest pang of longing for a company he never should have wanted.

He continued to feign sleep, leaving his captors totally clueless to the turmoil raging within his mind. Choice had never been part of his life as the Court’s servant, but now Talon found himself caught between indecision. Admittedly, he didn’t know, if he were on the other side of the glass, whether he would hug them or kill them.

…

It wasn’t until the next night that Tim was finally able to escape the Manor. Less than twenty-four hours spent doggedly running between working on an antidote for Dick and stopping either Damian or Bruce from putting a well-aimed batarang between Jason’s eyes and Tim was just about ready to book himself into Arkham. A half-breaking down Bruce and impatient, just about ready to throttle Red Hood Batman was bad, but worse, Damian was getting antsy (he’d spent all morning cooped inside his room in costume, even risking incurring the full wrath of Alfred, and all evening silently prowling the Cave corridors like the genocidal assassin-brat baby he was), and Tim knew whenever Damian got antsy unnecessary and excessive use of force tended to follow.

So Tim felt only a little bit of panic as he vaulted the cemetery wall, the shovel he’d brought cutting into the small of his back despite the various wrappings he’d administered to secure its place. He steadied himself, a whimper of relief escaping his lips as he raised his head to the sky, pausing to take in the eerie silvered glow of its sole occupant, before his feet picked up their pace and he began the first row in the full lap of the yard, hawkishly scanning the names of each of the stones as he went.

It was an hour before he’d found the right stone. Another thirty minutes before the shovel hit something other than dirt.

Tim felt a bolt of anxiety as he ran his fingers over the wood panel. Surely Jason wasn’t petty enough to lie about an empty coffin just so that his successor would come face to face with a dead body when they dug it up?

Tim stopped, his heart pounding.

Of course he was.

He gritted his teeth. He was a Robin. A shrivelled up skeleton was hardly the worst thing he had ever seen. With that in mind he lifted the shovel, popping the locks with the metal end, scrunching his eyes up only slightly as he pushed the lid off to peak nervously inside and find-

Nothing.

Jason hadn’t been lying. There was no skeleton nor any sign that any had once been there. The coffin was empty.

He wheezed a sigh of relief, the knots in his stomach slowly untying.

He lifted the lid back in place, hurriedly shovelling the crumbling mound of dirt back into the hole. It was hard not to feel a terrible sadness as the last of the pile disappeared. Carver had been his only lead. It wasn't like he had anything else to go on. Jason certainly wouldn't be a willing participant in his investigation. Whatever he'd hoped to find -  maybe some clue to split the case wide open that Jason had miraculously missed - it wasn't here.

His eye caught the stone, and he scanned the inscription, grinning as an idea slowly began forming in his mind.

Or maybe it was.

…

Carter and Sons was everything Tim expected a Gotham funeral director’s to be. Dark and expensive looking and horribly depressing. The furniture alone looked as if had just been lifted from the pages of Scary Crap Weekly. Towering grandfather clocks, intimidating armours and chandeliers that hung drearily from the ceiling to cast gloomy shadows over gloomier grey paste wallpaper. Even the atmosphere was dead, the air somehow seeming ten times heavier, like a cloud of lead that had invaded his lungs ever since he’d climbed through the main office window. To his credit, the man sat behind the desk didn’t even scream, looking up from the pile of paperwork they’d been working on to beam widely.

“A Bat huh? Well I always knew one of you would come. Been expecting a visit from tall dark and justice ever since day one.”

“I know it’s late Mister Carter, but I need to have a look at your files.” Tim stammered, quickly getting over his surprise. It wasn’t often that any of their family were so quickly accepted, let alone _welcomed._ The average hello tended to be the click of a shotgun as it was cocked his way.

If possible, Carter’s beam widened even further. “Well that ain’t no problem at all son. First door on your left.”

It didn’t take long to find the room or the right ledger he’d been looking for. Carters had an impeccable filing system, each client’s information incredibly detailed and listed according to time of death.

Finding Carver, however, proved to be much more difficult.

Tim growled in frustration. Dismay choked a sob off his lips as he leafed frantically between 371, 373 and where 372 should be.

“No, no no!” He cried out, whimpering. He ran his thumb down the jagged line of parchment, unable to kid himself anymore. There was no paper stuck together, no typo of the numbers. His lead was a literal dead end. Someone had torn the page out.  

“Everything okay in here?” Tim’s eyes shot up, a hand rubbing guiltily at the puffed iris as Carter poked his head through the door. “I don’t mean to intrude but I heard crying, thought you might appreciate this.”  He smiled sheepishly, entering the room and placing a mug of steaming hot coffee on the table alongside a wad of tissues.

He nodded knowingly as Tim reached for one, quietly snuffling into it. “Looks like I guessed right.”

“Sorry, it’s just, this was really important and I thought I had it, it’s been so stressful lately, all because of this and God I thought I’d finally found it. Sorry.” Tim apologised again, face flushing in shame. “I must look like a complete idiot.“

Carter patted him on the back gently. “Don’t be afraid to cry kiddo.” He chuckled. “This sort of business, well you get used to it. If you don’t mind me asking, what were you looking for? I can’t promise anything but I may be able to help. Mam always said I had a damn good memory.”

Tim dabbed the tissue over one eye, clearing up the sting of tears. “I’m trying to find a man called Alton Carver.” He explained, wincing as his voice cracked. He looked up hopefully. “I don’t suppose the name rings a bell?”

“Matter of fact it does. Must’ve been about twenty years ago, mind you. I weren’t the boss at the time, just the lad digging the ditches under Pop’s orders. Strangest service I ever saw. Rushed it they did, less than a week after the guy’s death. Refused to even let us lower the coffin. Tradition, the ringmaster said. Circus folk bury their own and all that. Pops went up to him, offered up the usual condolences. Said something about it being unfortunate, the old Haly’s Curse struck again. Ringmaster didn’t like that, not one bit. They rushed off straight after, the whole troupe packed up and gone the next day. Hope that helps?”

Carter’s voice trailed off into a question as he found himself speaking to an empty room. The hero had disappeared, the ledger on the table gone with him, leaving no trace he’d ever been.

…

 

He’d found nothing, but back then he hadn’t even known what he’d been searching for, he’d had no idea where to look. Not like now. So instead of trying to find seven names on the worldwide web (a feat not unlike finding seven atom-sized needles in seven thousand haystacks) he typed in ‘Haly’s Circus Accidents’ and punched search.

The first result was the Grayson Family Tragedy.

Tim let go of the breath he’d been holding, snapping out of the memory of Dick, a younger, happier Dick, smiling as he promised to dedicate the quadruple backflip to him, and nudged the mouse onto the title. He took another deep breath before he opened the article and began to read.

It took 3 hours of slogging through every result, no matter the outlandishness or questionable reliability, and he was well into the ninth mug of coffee before he found any result that could be considered useful. Anyone else looking would have given up, anyone else without access to one of, if not the most advanced computer on the planet would’ve got squat. It had been buried deep. Fourth hundred in the list deep. It was hardly a eureka moment, just a brief mention of an old fire at the circus in the Gotham Gazette. A snide allusion to the old Haly’s Curse. But it was something. And right now, it was all that Tim had to go on. He massaged his temples, resigning his self to another 3 hours of reading. Whatever the article meant, someone really hadn’t wanted it to be found. And that meant it was important. There was a reason someone wanted it hidden. Now Tim just had to find out what.

Nearly another four hours of sleuthing later and Tim had an answer. Haly's had a history, so much so that superstition had taken root and a curse feared. Trapezists drowned in freak flooding accidents. Escape artists suffocating in padlock mixups. Fire-eaters burned alive in caravan blazes. Never any mention of murder or foul play, just an unfortunate accident. Always fatal. Always some young star or starlet struck down in their prime. Each spaced out so that the one before had already been forgotten. Each occurring in a frequency of between every seven to eleven years. And each every time the Circus had visited Gotham.  

High wires artists lost to tragic muggings gone wrong. Safety wires switched, prop sword confusions, elephant stampedes, animal breakouts. Contortionists killed when tigers escaped their cages. Tim gasped aloud, his eyes widening as they read then re-read the name. He blinked, hardly able to believe it. He’d found Calvin Ross. 

 Haly's. Realisation came too fast, too much, like the blinding flash of a light bulb after decades spent in the dark. All the names of the notebook had been performers in Haly's Circus.

Tim stared at the screen, children's laughter and carnival music echoing sickly in his mind. The facts were indisputable. 

He knew who'd taken Dick.

 


	28. Breaking Point

Tim sighed, blowing air softly through his nose. Dodging Bruce had been close to a miracle. He’d only managed it because the man had locked himself away in his bedroom, not even answering to Alfred (at least not until the butler had taken a screwdriver to the hinges, demanding Master Wayne take his dinner like a proper adult rather than hiding like a sulking five year old). For a moment he’d even almost forgotten the universe had it in for their family. Of course it would have to be Damian following him. It made sense that he’d never be so lucky as to get _two_ nights alone. 

“I know you’re there.” Silence. Tim forfeited the urge to groan, settling instead to fold his arms and tap his foot against the stone impatiently. “Come on out.” He called tiredly, completely nonplussed as after another pause, shadows eventually parted, giving way to the familiar shades of red, curve of the darkened hood and ever present scowl of a not at all sheepish Damian. 

“Your skills are degrading.” The boy announced haughtily before he’d even stepped into full light. Even without it Tim could pick out the slope of pulled taut shoulders, the fall of arms down to tightly clenched fists, the slight raise of the mask where the boy’s eyebrow snaked up and the ugly twist of lips curled into their 24/7 degrading sneer. “It took you 5.03 minutes to notice my presence. I could have stabbed you twenty three times by now.”

Tim silently counted to ten, keeping his mouth firmly closed. He chose not to mention that he’d been aware of his tail before he’d even left the Manor’s grounds, or that he wouldn’t have given Damian three opportunities – let alone twenty three, deciding that the sidekick might be at least not totally unbearable if he was already riding high on some chalked up personal victory. Maybe they’d even be able to make it to the circus without falling into fifty different squabbles over Tim’s oh so obvious inadequacies to the Bat title.

“You are not sending me back.” Damian announced firmly, needle points of teeth flashing as in a cocky smirk. “Though I would like to see you try.”

“I’m not sending you back.” Tim answered. It was the truth, he wasn’t. It was tempting, sure, but he knew there was no point. Damian listened to no one, least of all him. No matter how logical the argument, the kid would just loop back and follow him.

“Good.” Damian answered. “Because you’d never have been able to.”

“Just try and keep up, kay kid?” Tim growled – so much for avoiding argument. And god, now he sounded like _Jason_ and wasn’t that just some great unwanted character development _._ Sure, he thought sourly, let’s be more like the certified insane brother locked up in Bruce’s basement.

Damian gave an enraged shriek, his shoulders squaring as his chest puffed up like a stray cat with a bucket of freezing icy water just thrown over its fur. Not that Tim stayed long enough to deal with any of it, whipping round and shooting his grapple, flying into the freedom of night sky before the boy could get close enough for opportunity 24.

Tim had hoped the journey to Haly’s wouldn’t be that bad. Spoilers. It was worse. Normally he enjoyed the feel of open air, the bite of the chill kept in check by insulated Kevlar, the hands of wind scattering the uniform of his hair; there was something sickeningly addictive about it. The sense that he could go anywhere he wanted, be anything he wanted. He wasn’t as claustrophobic as Dick who could barely pass two minutes standing without bouncing on the balls of his toes, running a hand through his rugged locks or hopping onto one leg, but just sitting around the Cave surrounded by nothing but cavern walls and test tubes for the most part of the last three days nearly had him going stir crazy. Unfortunately, flying through the night was an awful lot harder to enjoy when he had to listen to Damian’s ever constant commentary cattily announcing mistakes (Even a decrypt pensioner could have made that jump look better, Drake) or pointing out how he could make that leap longer, that landing softer, quieter, that swing smoother, cleaner.

It’s not annoyance that makes him speed up though; it’s the sirens, the shrill pitch of alarm driving into the buds of his ears like nails on chalkboard, the flare lights of on again off again blinks of crimson and aqua that anyone in Gotham can recognise as a bad time. He doesn’t swear – thank god finally a habit he _hasn’t_ picked up from his predecessor – but he does pick up the pace, sprinting over rooftops with a new sense of urgency and heightening feel of dread.

He sees the flames before he runs out of roof, it’s hard not to; they’re huge. A massive towering monster of angry magenta that has the entirety of Haly’s Circus trapped in the centre of its maw, the flames shooting off, built so high they easily surpass the remains of the trees that had hemmed the grounds in, almost clipping the presence of the moon, so tall the sky itself is on fire.

Damian’s about to plough forward, jump into action like a soaring bird sent from the heavens, but Tim raises one hand, stopping him. He’s seen enough fires to know when there’s no one left to save. They’d arrived too late; the ant-like outlines of firemen clustered at the foot of the inferno were scurrying with the sluggish pace of the defeated, their efforts with the hose lacklustre. The grounds were already dotted with the silhouettes of survivors huddled round GCPD uniforms at the backs of ambulances. Haly’s not one of them. None of the performers were. Audience members, the dour and demure greys and blacks easily recognizable of the Gotham public. The blaze must have broken out during a show, Tim realises. The circus’ curse struck again.

He counted their numbers quickly, logging the detail away for later information. A few had made it out. Not enough.

“Stay out of sight.” He commands.

“But-“ Damian argues, one hand already on the grapple.

He shakes his head. Batman’s name was smeared enough. Bruce had gone off the deep end after Dick’s disappearance and as a result their heroics weren’t as welcomed as before. Joker had been returned to Arkham – in a full body cast. Already cops were calling for the vigilante’s arrest. Some were even doubting his sanity after the wake of destruction he’d left in his path. He’d nearly torn the city apart searching for his protégé. There’ no one left to save and the last thing their family needed was two Bats to get caught snooping around a still active crime scene.  

“No.” he repeats. Damian growls, turning away in disgust, but his hand falls off the device, resting on the utility belt and he doesn’t make any further move to disobey.  

“Now what?” he mutters petulantly, scowling.

Tim settles himself on the edge of the building, hanging his legs off the ledge. He leans back, removing a set of binoculars from a pouch on his own belt. He lifts them to his face, peering through the lens. “Now we wait.”

They leave their perch hours later – when the cops and firetrucks have finally dispersed. Tim looks around the wreckage, padding over ashes, occasionally stopping to lift up pieces of debris – charred remains of tenting or blackened scraps of pole – only to immediately throw it back down. He kicks the dust in disgust. The circus is totally gone. His lead is totally gone.

…

He’s so totally done when he gets back to the Cave. Jason and Bruce are arguing over something petty (Jason wants a shower; Bruce won’t let him out to have one). Whatever, he doesn’t care. He’s. so. Totally. Done. He marches straight up to the Bat, rage rolling off his body in waves. Damian, stuck into a dumb stupor by the outburst, (Or maybe it’s because quiet, anxiety-riddled little Timothy Drake is finally showing backbone), lags behind, trailing awkwardly at his heels. Bruce’s eyes narrow into the beginning of a particularly withering glare, his lips parting as if about to utter some cutting remark, but Tim doesn’t give a damn. He draws himself up to full height, slamming a finger into Bruce’s chest before the man has chance to speak.

“This has gone on long enough. Dick’s half dead and doesn’t remember four fifths of his family and you’re down here, arguing over hygiene?! You can’t keep your problems locked in a cage until they’re ready to talk, Bruce. It’ll never work. And it’s inhumane.” He added as an afterthought.

“Gee thanks Timbo.” Jason growled sarcastically. A lazy grin had smoothed the lines of fury from his forehead and he was sitting back on the bed, one leg pulled up to his chest as he leaned his shoulders against the wall, eyes sparked alive with amusement, the hint of a chuckle under his breath as he followed the scene, like it was a soap opera he was watching on tv. Tim glared, anger only rising as he realised the anti-hero was enjoying this.

“And you.” He wheeled angrily on the man. “You need to get your head out of your ass. You may not like Bruce, or the brat or me, but from what I’ve seen you sure as hell like Dick, at least enough to care what happens to him so stop with the tantrums like a three year old that just got his favourite toy taken away and start cooperating so we can focus on what matters: trying to fix whatever the hell happened to him. You are going to get fifteen minutes of bathroom privileges if personal care is that much of a priority, then you are going to come straight back downstairs, sit down and tell us everything you know about who took Dick and why.”

Damian is gaping. Bruce is standing frozen, his expression shell-shocked. Tim chalks that up as a personal victory. Not a lot could make the Batman speechless. Jason looks like he wants to punch him. Tim’s not surprised (Jason looks like he wants to punch him a lot). But then all the anger leaves Jason’s body, sucked away in the slump of shoulders and resignation written in his eyes, until all that’s left of the phantom of fury is a broken man who mutters a defeated “fine.” And that is unexpected. Tim wishes he had his camera. Or at least a voice recorder. Red Hood submitting to Red Robin would have made a great ringtone.

Job done, he leaves, throwing his hands up in the air, shouting “You’re both idiots!” without looking back once, grinning a little to himself as Damian scampers to get out of his way.  


	29. Confession Time

Jason had to work hard to suppress a moan as he crafted fingers through his freshly pampered hair, breathing in the scent of fresh peaches as he ran the other hand across the line of stubble christening his chin. He leaned back in his seat, glaring at his audience. It felt good to be free, really it did, and you definitely wouldn’t hear him complaining about little Timmy’s graduation to big boy pants – or begging to be locked back up – anytime soon. Still, he grunted, swiping a thumb over his chin before settling for folding both arms defensively against his chest, there were complications. Of course there were fucking complications, in his life when were there ever not? On the plus side he was out of that horrible confinement cell. Suck it Bruce. On the down side, he now had to deal with all…

“You mean to tell us that Grayson has been drafted into an army of undead assassins and has been running about this city on their orders this entire time? And you didn't think to inform us?” Damian's eyes narrowed as he seethed.

Whu-oh, Jason knew that look. Some poor innocent dummy was getting shish kebabbed tonight. He said a silent prayer for the family. Hopefully it would at least be quick, and relatively painless. Which was probably the opposite of whatever the tiny ball of Daddy Issues had planned for him. Worryingly, one of Damian's hands hadn’t left the katana handle and his brow had been creeping up further and further - apparently seeing exactly how high it could go before it became one with the demon's unholy hairline - ever since Jason had opened his big fat gob and spat out friendly neighbourhood assassination attempt. Speaking of Daddy Issues, Brucie boy was nowhere in sight. He'd disappeared ever since that telling off from Tim. Not that Jason minded. The fucker was probably pulling the usual emokid routine; skulking in the shadows, crying over his failures on a roof somewhere in the city. Someone say drama queen?

“You Jason Todd are an imbecile.” Damian declared smugly.

…this.

“Hey!” Jason growled protest, still simmering after all he'd been put through rage bubbling to the surface. “I’m many things-“ Epic sharpshooter, dashingly handsome crime lord supreme, closet romantic literature enthusiast. “But stupid ain’t one of em.”

“Them.” Damian sneered, contempt dripping off the words as he glowered down the edge of his nose. “The correct pronunciation is ‘them’. Something anyone versed in over ten minutes of the English language will tell you”.

Jason scowled. Suddenly that cell didn’t seem half bad.

Damian whirled to face his next victim, turning on the teen standing next to him like a shark smelled blood. Normally Jason felt a pang of pity for his successor – Tim had a knack for looking like a kicked puppy under the Robin’s onslaughts – but tonight there was no chime of sympathy, just the slightest flicker of respect. Tim’s face was drawn, his arms folded and he bore an expression that shouted he wouldn’t be buying shit from anyone anymore.  The hero was all out of fucks to give. Jason could relate. Maybe there was hope for the brat after all.

“Have your ears broken Drake?” Damian hissed. “The criminal just confessed he’s had Grayson all this time.”

“And laid his life on the line who knows how many times to keep him safe.” Tim retorted harshly, sounding like he wanted to be anywhere but standing next to the little upstart. Jason could relate to that too. He too could think of a great many places he'd rather be right now. His bed, his couch, Hell, a bookshop full of only Fifty Shades of Grey novels.

What the fuck, Jason collected his jaw off the floor, wondering when he'd died (again) and gone to a pararrel dimension. Or was the same kid who he'd hated to the point of flat out trying to obliterate, actually sticking up for him? 

He blinked, staring in surprise at his unexpected ally; Tim’s expression had softened, the bad boy attitude had faded somewhat, leaving behind the scared little kid who jumped at his own shadow that Jason was so used to seeing. Of the three of them Tim had always been the least confident. The cautious one who stayed back and triple checked perimeters instead of leaping head on into danger.

Jason eyed his replacement, properly assessing the teen’s state. There was anger; in the roll of his breath, too heavy, too emotional to be anything but furious, and in the way that his fingers flexed in and out of fists, as if he were imagining holding the necks of the Court in between them. But it was clear he was also riddled with guilt, most likely self-loathing directed by the thought that he’d failed Dick – the same weight that had Jason in a chokehold squeezed so tight he could barely breathe. The only difference was that Jason hid it better. Tim’s poker face was completely off; his shoulders had drooped and he looked close to tears. Tiny sniffles had escaped his nose and already one hiccup left unchecked had made it out of his throat.

Up till then the pain in his eyes had been reserved purely for Dick, but now to his horror, Jason found Tim was looking at him with that same, pained, glassy stare. And wasn’t that a whole bunch of nope? The last thing he wanted was his replacement’s pity. Actual emotion, hell, actual care from his family? Yuck. You can take the receipt for that back please and thank you. He hadn’t done this for them; he wasn’t a hero trying to regain their trust.

God, was that what Tim thought? That he’d taken Dick in like some injured bird he’d found on the street to nurse back to health and eventually set free? He hadn’t done this to be just another goody two shoes schmuck mooning after Bruce’s approval like the rest. He definitely hadn’t done this out of some kind of brotherly affection towards the idiot. Because his affections were far from brotherly. Yeah he’d admit it. It’d taken Dick disappearing off the face of the planet for two months, coming back as an undead brainwashed zombie minion, Boy not so Wonder-fully doing brushing off explicit orders to grievously maim and mutilate this gorgeous bod, multiple murder attempts by some evil obsessed with Dick cult, some lovely/deadly run-ins with just as dick obsessed Deathstroke, at least three brushes with death – probably permanent this time – and some (un)friendly Batintervention, but he’d finally say it. He was head over heels for Dick fucking Grayson. And coming clean about that would be the biggest fuck you to Bruce he could ever say – bigger even than that time he was ever so slightly mentally unhinged and spelled ‘Fuck you Batman’ out with Blackmask’s goons’ guts (A little grotesque sure, but damn if it hadn’t had style).

Yeah he was in love with Dick. The drawing swirly hearts on notebooks, gooey, warm inside, PDA infected area kind of love that had him just wanting to stride down to where the man was being confined, bust down the door grab his hands and fuck him into the cave wall. Hard. He’d turn off the cameras first. Obviously.

It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with that. They weren’t related, and neither of them had formerly taken the Wayne name. And he’d never asked for a brother, certainly not one who flew so high Jason had nearly broken his neck trying to reach the first rung of’s ladder. Besides, judging by the way Dick had been side-eying him lately, he was pretty sure the man wouldn’t say no to a little friendly rough fucking. That is, if Jason ever grew enough balls to ask him. Completely unintimidated even by the Bat but thinking about that one question has him biting his lip as he sweats his seventh bucket. How the hell were you supposed to ask the planet’s most perfect person on a date? Coffee? You didn’t just _ask_ Dick Grayson to Starbucks. And all unfortunate name jokes aside, he’s pretty sure the short shorts champion of ‘16 has never had any D. if he had then a certain speedster would be breaking the speed force in his hurry to throw himself front of the queue.

“…may have gone about it the wrong way but he protected him. Yeah, he didn’t tell us, but he probably had his reasons for that. We haven’t exactly welcomed him back with open arms. What’s important is that he’s been keeping Dick safe. And right now, that’s all that matters, right Jason, Jason?”

With some difficulty, Jason pulled his focus out of where it’d been fucking Dick’s writhing body into the floor and back into the room where Tim’s worriedly staring at him. “Uh yeah, right.” He wheezed, one hand lifting to mop the tiny bead of sweat that had formed on his brow.

“You can’t be serious!” Damian exploded, quivering on the spot in rage. His hackles raised, standing in the air like the puffed up fuzz of a particularly feral, partially electrocuted bunny rabbit. “He abducted Grayson, ran halfway across the country, refused to hand him over and even withheld the man’s memories of his own family and you expect me to what, turn around and forgive him?”

“A thank you would be nice too.” Jason chimed in, lazing back in his seat with the biggest shittiest shit-eating grin. “After all, I did save him all those times that you couldn’t.”   

Jason hadn’t thought Damian could look more murderous, but some way, somehow, he managed it. “How dare you!” The boy ranted, face sputtering an angry purple. His cheeks ballooned, veins bubbling to the surface in bright electric zigzag blue lines that pulsed and throbbed as if about to detonate, their colours practically popping out of his head. If Jason had a Dulux paint strip to compare he'd be fairly sure it would match shade somewhere in between The Upcoming Grievious and Explicitly Bodily Murder of Jason Todd, and Purple Sugar Plum Fairy.

“I am perfectly capable of protecting Grayson on my own-“

“Mhmm.” Jason hummed cheerily, thoroughly enjoying his front row seat of the brat’s full blown volcanic meltdown. “And what a fine job you did of that. Maybe we should ask Dickie huh?” He held the kid’s glare, his voice turning accusing. “About exactly how protected he felt sitting alone in that cell for eight weeks? Or how about four nights back, when you both hauled his ass into another cage?”

“We can’t let him out.” Tim explained sadly. “He’s unstable.”

 “Oh he’s perfectly stable. You two,” Jason scoffed, jabbing two fingers in the pair’s direction.  “Just don’t want to see what huge failures you are. Both of them looked guiltily away as he paused for breath.

“There." He snapped. "I'm done, I've answered your questions, I’ve been a good boy, am I allowed to see him now? And if you think I’m asking, I’m not. You’re welcome to try but you’re not going to stop me, and even with this truce – or whatever the hell this little tea party is – it won’t stop me from tossing your knocked out asses onto the floor. I’m going to stand up now. And then I’m going to go see the guy only I was good enough to keep safe.”  

Stunned into silence they didn’t argue, and as Jason stood from the chair, springing off the seat and onto his feet, striding off, they didn’t make a move to stop him.

“I’m not the only one who’s been an idiot.” He slowed down, whispering In the teen’s ear. He smiled, heartily clapping Tim on the back before heading down the corridor that would take him to the cells, to _Dick._ It was hard not to skip through the cavern; his audience only able to scrape together a stutter and stare at where he'd left.

…

“You are alive.”

Dick’s head bobbed up, the rest of his body slowly rising, limbs gracefully uncurling from where they’d been set against the ground to stand. His gaze burned, unrelenting as it swept up and down Jason’s body, searching for any injury, a relieved sigh echoing quietly between the two of them as he found none. Jason waved a hand in greeting, then Dick was ghosting over to the cell panel, hips sashaying and steps flaunting with all the elegance of a prima ballerina. The bastard had always made every move he made look like some highly complex, twenty-something hours, ruthlessly practised choreographed dance routine.  

Jason offered a dog-eared grin. “It takes a lot more than that to take me down.”

“I am, glad.” A burst of warmth bubbled in his belly at the grown man’s timbre. Dick’s voice was still ragged, barely a ghost of the happy chirp that it had been, but one good word could still knock Jason on his metaphorical ass. Dick cocked his head, looking thoughtful. A moment passed, then he hesitantly raised one hand, a flicker of doubt crossing his eyes as he rested his palm against the cell’s pane. “You must promise me something.”

“Sure, anything.” Jason breathed, lifting his own hand and spreading his fingers, placing them over Dick’s. He’d never noticed how slender the acrobats’ hands were. Small, fragile. Fists that weren’t meant to be slamming into others people’s faces.

And then in a far too familiar move Dick was grinning glumly, his lean body pulling through the shudders wrecking it to stand tall because when could the self-sacrificing idiot ever show weakness in front of anyone? “First chance you get, you must leave. Escape. I will be fine alone.”

Even weeks of nonstop torture and brainwashing hadn’t made him lose that martyr complex, he was just as ready to throw himself under the bus – the 190 mph, double decker bus – as he had been the day Jason had met him. Jason looked into Dick’s eyes, fast enough to catch the flash of fear reflected in the golden pupils. Dick was afraid; downright terrified, but wasn’t showing it because he didn’t want to let Jason down. Fury swelled in the pit of Jason’s stomach. Couldn’t the hero just be selfish for once? Beg Jason to stay and break him out instead of offering himself up as a meat shield in the line of fire? Which wasn’t happening. There was no way he was abandoning him now – not even if he had to listen to a hundred hours of Bruce lectures. You could put a bullet in his skull. He’d just crawl his way out of another Lazarus Pit and come charging back.

“I’m sorry Dickie. I can’t do that.”

Dick’s face fell, his eyes heartbroken. “You do not need to worry about my welfare, I will be-“

“No.” Jason interrupted. “I’m not leaving. Not without you. I won’t lose you. Not again.”

“These people are dangerous Little Wing.” Dick insisted, his voice rising. “I have heard the way you speak of them. They will hurt you if you stay.”

The tiny needles of guilt that had been plaguing the back of his brain ever since Tim had sat him down and demanded to know what he knew grew and multiplied, their stings no longer gentle, ignorable love taps but very noticeable, extremely painful red hot pokers branding the inside of his mind. He swallowed thickly. “No they won’t.”

Dick huffed, exasperation leaking through the emotionless slate programming his captors had instilled. “They have already tried to kill you and take me by force, you said-“

“I know what I said! I was lying, okay? I was lying. I was scared that if you remembered them you’d want to leave me so I lied. Batman,” Jason stuttered, choking on raw emotion. “Bruce, he’s your father. And Tim and Damian aren’t evil beings sent from the pits of hell to take over the planet, they’re your brothers. I’m your brother too. Not related, adopted, brother. Brother _s_. You, me and Tim lost our parents. Damian’s mother is a manipulative, power-hungry bitch. One by one, Bruce took us all in. You were the first. The first adopted, the first Robin, and the first to go solo. I took the title after you, then Tim, and now it’s Damian’s. We’re all one big crime-fighting unhappy family.”    

“You lied.” Dick echoed. His hand dropped down to his sides. Even though they hadn’t actually been touching, Jason felt a pang of loss. Dick’s voice was flat. Too flat. Almost emotionless. And somehow that was so much worse. Jason suddenly understood – he wanted to see Dick mad. He wanted to see the hero shout and scream and accuse. Not this, this broken fake Dick who didn’t seem surprised, who just stared into his eyes with sad, resigned acceptance, like he’d expected this betrayal and he’d just been waiting for the moment that finally confirmed it. A normal man wouldn’t have thought anything was wrong. A normal man wouldn’t have seen the flash of hurt, the minute twitch of shoulders as Dick sharply inhaled, the jerked bob of Adam’s apple as he swallowed twice in a row.

Jason wasn’t a normal man.

Dick was hurt.

Hurting because of him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. He licked his dried lips, wetting them as he fought for air. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. I said it was for your own good, that Bruce would do more worse than right. But it wasn't that, I was being selfish. I know that now, but it's, I just, I’d finally found someone who understood, who wanted to be around even when they knew what I was, what I am.” Tears had gathered at the corner of his eyes. He blinked them back furiously. He was not going to cry. Not now. “God I’m sorry. For not telling you sooner, for not finding you in time to stop all-“ he cut off, unable to finish, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry. I could’ve handled this better.” He looked sadly around the cell. “We all could’ve.”

Dick snorted, softly humming his sarcastic agreement. “These people, they are really not the enemy?”

“No.” Jason confirmed, shaking his head softly. To his horror, one tear dribbled down his cheek, splattering the collar of his shirt. “They’re really not.”

“And everything you’ve told me about them, that is a lie also?” Dick asked uncertainly. Jason withered like a dying flower under the eyes that he was used to seeing look at him with recognition and care – at times even burn with possession – now hooded and distant.

He shifted the weight of his feet, suddenly feeling very, very awkward. “Uh yeah. Sorry about that too.”

Dick paused, lost in thought, letting the words settle as Jason huffed, catching his breath.

After a few moments; when Jason was so sure that he had been thrown into the I’m-so-mad-I’m-not-talking-to-you-you-fucking-asshole zone, Dick’s form twitched. Cautiously, he tilted his head. “So they will not attempt to devour my heart?” he asked, hesitantly.

An olive branch. Too small to be a branch; an olive twig. Still, Jason would take it. It was more than he deserved, after all.

He blinked.

" _I knew him." Dick repeated stubbornly. He'd been saying it for the last five minutes straight, eyes far off as they gazed into some place that definitely wasn't the grimy motel wall in front of them._

_In bed next to him, Jason nodded. He stroked Dick's head, brushing a stray chunk of bang out of the man's eyes. A week ago Jason would have been lucky to keep his hand, now Dick gave a contented huff, leaning into the touch._

_"Yeah you did. They're monsters, Dick. Real life monsters. Get close to them, let them dig their claws in, and they'll eat your heart."_

_He ruffled the raven's nest, smiling as Dick hummed and pressed deeper into his palm. With the other hand he reached over, pulling the chord of the battered lamp on the bedside cabinet._

_"Come on now asshole, even jailbirds need their eight hours of beauty sleep."_

Oh yeah, he’d said that. Whoops. “What? No, Damian’s a vegetarian anyway, and Tim would never do that. He may bore you to death with the scientific explanation for food colouring-“ It turns the stuff blue. Leave it at that and let the magic stay alive. “-but he’d never do THAT.” Jason’s eye twitched. He managed a tough chuckle. “Here’s a tip, just don’t ask him about Santa Claus.”

“Santa Claus?” Dick repeated, suddenly looking and sounding like a confused lost puppy.

“Yeah.” Jason’s face scrunched into a frown. “You’ll get a forty minute lecture on flying reindeer and why they can’t exist.”

He scowled darkly, a note of distaste plain in his tone. Christmas that year had been ruined. What, Red Hood wasn’t allowed to get in the festive mood? He owned that holiday.  _Owned it_. Did the whole shebang; ugly themed sweaters complete with cringe worthy pun stitching, Christmas tree borrowed from the home of one of Gotham’s wealthiest, explosive’s wiring wreath on the door, cards to the family with a carton of Eggnog in one hand and stuck up middle finger in the other. Red Hood loves Christmas. Loved Christmas. Right up until he got into that conversation with Tim. But c’mon, he’d be surprised if there _wasn’t_ an alien who one day ever year broke into the houses of everyone on the planet and left a present when they were sleeping. Which, now he came to think about it, was actually pretty creepy.   

“Noted.” Dick’s lips ticked into the beginning of a dry smile. Jason found himself memorising the look, greedily hanging onto the moment – the dimples speckling the corner, the curve of cherry red, slightest flash of pearl white – tucking it away in his mind for later, when he would pull it back out again and again, grasping at those few seconds like a starving man grabbed for a plate of food. Confirmation that even after all he’d done, Dick didn’t totally hate him.

The man really was a saint. An angel they didn’t deserve, but damn did they need. Did Jason need.

Said heavenly being’s head drooped, hanging to bump against his neck as dejected eyes toed the floor. “They are not going to let me out, are they?”

“I’m sorry,” Jason said, again. Lately it seemed sorry was all that he was saying to anyone. “They don’t know if you’re stable enough to be around others yet.”

“Good.” Jason felt his insides tear all over again as Dick looked downright miserable. “I do not want to hurt them.”

 “We’re going to fix this.” He declared. “All of us. Tim's brains, my brawns, Bruce's wealth, there's nothing we can't do.”

Dick chuffed cynically, showing exactly how much he believed in that promise, but Jason’s heart soared as Dick’s head rose, and he looked into his brother’s eyes and saw something he hadn’t seen in a long time. Hope.

"Dick, I-"

He paused. He'd tell Dick how he felt.

Eventually.

…

Jason expected many things when he answered Wayne Mansion’s front door. The brown packaging of Tim’s latest Amazon delivery, a poker-faced Alfred wordlessly holding the scruff of a one disappeared, blushing Damian Wayne. Maybe even Wally West's form flickering on and off like television static, the speedster practically vibrating through the stone of the doorstep as he excitedly demanded to see his BFF.

He did not expect the casual orange knitted turtleneck or to find himself staring into the one good blue eye of its owner.

“Aw hell no.” He growled, slamming the door in Slade’s face.


	30. Birds, Bats and Bad Decisions

Unfortunately, a wooden door didn’t keep Slade out for long. The meta’s super senses had kicked in, one foot reacting fast enough to catch the door before it slammed shut. Slade had folded his arms, one brow cocking as he held it in place without breaking a sweat, even when Jason had thrown all his weight behind it. They’d been forced to allow him inside, and quickly. The last thing they needed were reporters asking why Slade killer for hire Wilson was knocking on Bruce Wayne’s front door. Jason had, reluctantly, followed the rest of his family through the halls, wishing the man whose middle name was Paranoia had laid out more booby traps on his doorbell. The way Bruce went on about security, Jason would’ve thought he’d have anti-tank missiles installed in the grounds’ fucking water sprinklers.

Two seats to his left, Bruce sat, face impassive as always, though there was an unnatural hardness in his eyes that told Jason exactly how close the old man was to slamming their guest’s head into the plate of cookies Alfred had wordlessly supplied then left. He supposed needing to know why a mercenary – especially  _that_ mercenary – had dropped onto his doorstep had beaten out the Edgelord Supreme’s desire to sulk and skulk in a dark corner. Damian and Tim were on his direct left and right in a scene ripped straight out of The Last Supper painting, complete with three – yes siree, not one, not two but for this low low price of your eternal soul, three – backstabbing Judas’. Maybe the sandwiching wasn’t intentional, maybe it was purely coincidence that he was in the easiest spot lest the two sidekicks need to grab him.

Jason didn’t believe that for a second. Bruce didn’t trust him, and from the worried glances slid across his left, neither did Tim. After the initial first terrified squeak of seeing honest to God Slade of all people standing on Wayne Manor’s welcome mat Red Robin had been quietly contemplative, his mind probably working overtime, firing off possible reasons for the hitman’s coming in and how to get them back  _out_. In comparison Damian had (as always) made his opinion on the matter extremely clear, dragging his heels to the kitchen, a stern grimace fixed on as his face as he loudly seethed his annoyance for letting the ‘villainess cur’ inside. He’d already thrown around some of his more colourful vocabulary – straight out of Ye Olde Dictionarye, and Jason had to wonder, if Bruce wasn’t there to hold the reins would the mercenary have been going home in a body cast or a hearse?

Asshole Incarnate himself, Slade sat across the table, ramrod straight and posture perfect, reclining imperiously in the wooden chair like he were a king on a throne looking down on his kingdom. One arm was draped over the armrest, fingers loosely splayed over the edge. A holier than thou snooty stare that despite his stoic silence still managed to scream I’m so much better than you all and you better believe I know it matching the crude sneer of his lips. The other hand was glued to a comically small in comparison cup, his pinkie stuck up just as much as the rest of his countenance (Yeah the big baddy Red Hood just used the word countenance. So he likes to read, sue him). Jason got the feeling that he was mocking them.

Slade was the picture of serenity and that made Jason  **furious**. Every instinct in his body screamed attack. His muscles remained rigid, knuckles clenched under the table in his lap, ready for a fight even as Slade casually sipped on the mug of tea in front of him – made by Alfred, of course. In an extremely suspicious and definitely with ulterior motive move, Damian had offered but the butler had quickly intervened before the boy had chance to add his ‘special ingredient’. (Jason was 99% sure that assassins didn’t see midnight nightshade tea as a delicacy, but then again, it was Ra’s. He couldn’t see the Demon’s Head settling for milk and two sugars either. Orphan’s blood, maybe. But definitely not a carton of Cravendale).

It was strange seeing Wilson in civvies – especially that orange horror of a sweater. Dick would’ve said it made the man look like an oompa lumpa on steroids, if he’d been here. Jason’s gut punched, his insides pitching sickly as he remembered Dick wasn’t here. He was down in the Cave in Bruce’s prison cell. Alone and broken.

There was just something wrong about seeing Slade out of costume. He’d always wondered what the villain actually looked like, but now he’d seen it, like a kid who’d peeped at his Christmas presents a day early, he wanted to take it back. The skin was old and weathered. A scar that he could only wish he’d inflicted ran up one half, splintering up the cheek and over the dull eye socket to brush against bushy grey brow. The long silvered strands of hair were slicked back into a loose pony that tailed down to rippled shoulder blades. The Ted Sweater – as Dick would so eloquently put it – did a shite job of hiding the merc’s impressive muscles. Worst of all, seeing Slade without the mask was a painful reminder that there was a face even under all the body armour, an actual living breathing person beneath all the obnoxious drawl and teenage boy wet dreams of weaponry.

A smug, obnoxious face that Jason wanted nothing better to do than lean over and slap with a 7.62mm AK-47 round. As it was the villain seemed to be enjoying his as yet unpoisoned beverage, an obnoxious smirk on his lips as he lowered the cup, placing it back on the coaster, one hand reaching for the collection of sugar cubes, coolly dropping two into the cup. The mixture sloshed about as he stirred it, a gentle ting of metal on china echoing as he cleaned the spoon of spare drops and set it back down on the saucer, apparently oblivious to the four Bat glares burning into the front of his head. 

At last, Slade looked up, casting his eye carefully over his audience.

“Where’s Big Bird?” He inquired semi-innocently. Ha! As if.

Bruce ignored the jibe, his gravelled tone rumbling the question they were all wondering.

“Why are you here Slade?”

Amusement flicked the corner of Slade’s lips up.

“To offer my services, of course.”

Jason snorted. “And why the hell would you want to help? You wished upon a star and all your dreams came true. Where are the balloons, the cake, the confetti? Bird boy finally fell off his morally high perch. You got what you wanted. You  _won._ ”

He waited for a response, but for once, Slade was silent. Almost imperceptibly the fingers gripping the armrest tightened, knuckles whitening as nails sunk deep, as if wood were flesh gouged from a face, before relaxing. Jason caught the change and grinned.  

 “Unless,” He continued slowly, the smile creeping across his face widening as realisation clicked into place. “Unless you hadn’t. Because it wasn’t you that broke him. It was someone else. Someone did what you could never. And god, you must hate that.”

Slade remained quiet, though a not quite missable flash of anger had taken up place in his eyes.

“It is regrettable, yes. That certain parties acquired Richard before I was able.” He murmured eventually, with the slightest note of petulance in his tone. “But we digress, I have offered my willing support, I am sure you are most grateful.”

“No thanks. I like my back knife free.” Jason deadpanned.

“Jason raises a good point.”

He hated the small flush of pride that bloomed in his belly at Bruce’s praise.

“Why should we trust your help?”

Slade’s eye flashed possessively. He calmly reached for another sugar cube, dropping it in with a loud  _plunk_.

“I don’t like my things being touched. Besides, if I can bypass your defences I guarantee the Court will be just as able. Five against an army is a death sentence.”

“And six against an army isn’t?” Damian sneered.

“Not when that sixth is me.” Slade answered primly.

In his seat, Tim sighed. He leaned forward, one hand tinkering away at a device on his other wrist. Blue light flashed, then a hologram – a miniaturised diagram of a body Jason recognised as a Talon popping up. He wasn’t going to ask when Tim had the time to cook that up. He’d learned very quickly that trying to find out where Tim got his information from was a very bad idea. Brat’s stalker tendencies were still apparently, going strong.

“We’re fighting an army of undead super soldiers. As much as I hate to admit it, Slade’s right. We’re going to need all the help we can get.” 

He looked pointedly at Bruce.

“No. We are not calling the League. We can manage this on our own.”  Bruce stated firmly.

Normally that would be it. Matter closed. But Timothy Drake’s growing a backbone had apparently been semi-permanent.

“Managing this on our own is what got us into this mess in the first place.” The dark-haired teen protested. “The League know Dick. They can help. They deserve to at least know that he’s alive.”

“I will not have supers in my Gotham-“

“At least let the Titans.” Tim argued insistently. “We could use an alien princess and glowing green star bolts on our side.”

Jason agreed. He'd seen Starfire in action. They could use all the flying, hand laser wielding, super strength alien princesses they could get. It'd be nice to have a green hyperactive shapeshifter on their side too. Jason knew a great many people who deserved a giant green elephant sitting on their ass.

“No. Family matters stay as family.” Bruce gravelled firmly. The decisions the man made...the mind boggled.

"I'm sorry," he sputtered. "Did you just say _no_  to our very own personal superhero army?" 

“He’s not family.” Damian hissed.

“For now.” Slade simpered, voice sweet as poisoned honey.

"Again, superhero army." Jason cried. And was completely ignored. Go figure.

“He’s an exception.” Bruce explained stonily. “Deathstroke already operates in the city. There’d be mass hysteria if Superman or another alien suddenly appeared in Gotham.”

“I give up.” Tim threw his hands up in the air in disgusted defeat. “You’re unbelievable.”

Bruce turned away from the boy, glaring stormily at the killer who had watched the exchange with a sparkle of schadenfreude in his eye.

“You can help, Slade. But on my terms.”

Slade slowly raised an eyebrow.

“You will be supervised at all times.” Bruce continued. “You comply to my command. If you have a problem with orders, raise it with me. I will not play babysitter to your whims, run off on your own or disobey direct instruction and I will personally see you to a cell in Blackgate.”

“Is that all? After everything Richard said I was expecting,” Slade’s lip curled. “More.”

 “There will be no killing. You use rubber bullets on non-metas. The same as Jason.”

Slade’s mouth pursed. “I find those conditions acceptable. But I want access to him.”

“Not happening.” Jason snapped quickly, not needing to play the pronoun game to know who Slade was talking about. Or instantly refuse his request.

“He’s currently occupied.” Bruce growled, the slight clench of his jaw and set of his shoulders identifying him, despite his no kill rule, as absolutely murderous.

Slade chuckled dryly. “I’m sure you can find some way to clear his schedule. I’ll see him, one way or the other. I think you would prefer it if both parties were consensual.”

Bruce scowled. Jason felt the table move, the oak shuddering as Tim stomped on Damian’s foot to keep him from lunging at the killer’s throat.

 “Five minutes above ground. Monitored and recorded.” Bruce offered with a grunt that sounded as if he were pulling teeth out of his own mouth. It was the most emotion Jason had ever seen the man give. He’d be impressed, maybe even sympathetic, if Bruce wasn’t auctioning Dick off to Slade like he was a prize rug or any other of the Manor’s dusty old antiques.

“One hour one on one. Below ground. Every day.” Slade countered.

“Twenty minutes. Above ground. One off.” Bruce batted back.

“Thirty minutes. Below. Per day.”

“Twenty five minutes. Per day. Supervised and blindfolded until his quarters.”

“That what we calling prison now?” Jason muttered angrily beneath his breath. Catching himself, he looked up, horrified to find the grey-haired elder smirking triumphantly like the kitty just caught the canary.

“Still not wanting to share secrets? How quaint. Very well, I accept.”

Damian let out a squawk of rage. Tim just sighed, resigned. He sent Jason an anxious glance – probably trying to work out the likelihood of the anti-hero pulling a gun on them all. So far he was sitting somewhere around seventy. Dick probably wouldn’t be very happy if he told him he’d shot the family he’d only just found out he had.

“Father! You cannot seriously be considering working with this scoundrel-“

Bruce, emotionally constipated as always, was having none of it. Geez, Jason almost felt bad for the brat.

“Enough Damian.”

“But!-“

“I said  **enough**.” Bruce thundered. Damian visibly deflated, sinking down in his seat, collapsing in on himself like a burst balloon.

Jason had the delightful image of three grizzlies ripping the merc to ribbonned shreds as Slade blew the steam off his cup and took a smug victory sip. He hoped the asshole choked on it. His eye met Jason’s and coolly held his gaze, silently lording over his win. A triumphant sneer stained his upper lip.

“I’ll take my twenty five minutes now.”

Unable to stay and listen any longer, Jason stormed off.

…

His room was exactly how he’d left it. The same slight creak in the door when he opened it – he’d never let Alfred fix that, saying it reminded him too much of home, his first home. Made the place feel cosier, less dollhousesy. God he’d been a sentimental idiot. Same books on the shelf, stashed in the same order, a thick layer of dust coating the covers that told him the novels hadn’t been touched, had been painstakingly left alone, preserved almost reverently just like the rest of the room. Same clothes in the closet and drawers when he peeked into them. He remembered that monstrosity of a suit. It had been his first. Bruce had bought it for the official oops I adopted another orphan announcement party. It’d made him look like a walking talking penguin. He’d pulled at the collar with a scowl and rolled the sleeves up to show all the boyish scrapes he’d managed to accumulate in the last five hours. He’d hated it, wanted it  **off** until Dick had said it made him look like a dapper little gentleman. Then he’d raised adoring eyes that might as well have had stars fucking carved in them and snuffled out a ‘really?’ and Dick had chuckled and ruffled his hair and said ‘yeah’ before hoofing it to the buffet table.

He really had been an idiot.

He flopped onto the bed, glaring at the ceiling.

The air was suffocating, the atmosphere choking. There were too many questions pounding around his head – did Bruce ever come in here? Did Alfred? Did Dick? Or had the place been closed off when he’d died, left to rot forgotten just like the rest of Jason’s memory?

He couldn’t breathe. It was too easy to remember the times when he was younger; sneaking out of the window, pockets stuffed with stolen silverware before Bruce could kick him out, Dick hauling his ass back through less than two hours later, loudly scolding him, though there was a grin on the man’s face even when he shook the hoody and forks and knives clattered onto the floor.

Curling up on the covers with Robin’s cape clutched in one meaty hand, pressed into the side of his face like a comfort blanket.

Bruce sitting at his bedside the first time he got sick, a fretting Dick anxiously shouting out possible causes that he read off Google.

  _“Trench foot? Chicken pox? Measles? Malaria? Does he have asthma? Hayfever? His temperature’s up, what’s a normal temperature supposed to be? Can his chin touch his chest? Did he get bitten by a radioactive mosquito? Did you let him get bitten by a radioactive mosquito?!”_

Standing against the wall, grinning as Alfred marked the height, ducking away from the butler and excitedly standing on the tips of his toes, checking the number and crowing the earned extra two inches.

Teenage Jason still in uniform thundering into the room, slamming the door and screaming out his frustrations after his first fight with Bruce.

Jason shuddered. He drew in a deep breath, barking out a humourless laugh. Even in his own space he felt unwelcome.

“What do you want?” He turned his head, glaring rudely at his visitor.

In the doorway Damian crossed his arms, glaring right back. “Wilson is demanding to see Grayson. Father says you are to be his first supervisor.”

“Father,” Jason twisted the word with an ugly sneer. It left a bad taste in his mouth. “Can go fuck off.” His voice softened. “Why don’t you do it? I’m sure you’d love to see your Grayson.”

“Drake is forbidding me from being left alone with the villain. He believes I would attack him.”

Jason delicately raised an eyebrow. “You’re listening to Drake now?”

Damian stiffened. “I simply believe criminals should best associate with each other.” He stated, though there was a broken note of sadness beneath the usual I’m better than you curtness.

Jason sighed, cursing the tiny voice in his head that was pestering him to be a better brother. The tiny voice in his head that sounded a lot like Dick. He growled to himself, trying to justify the move – they were staying in the same house, it was probably best they didn’t try to murder each other – at least for the foreseeable future – to himself.

He stretched his arms above his head, exaggerating an angry huff as he sat up from the bed. He swung his legs round, fixing Damian with a stern ‘I ain’t taking none of your bullshit’ look. “What’s up, kid? You’ve never listened to Tim before.”

It was like the floodgates had burst open.

Damian shivered, his eyes glassy, filling with too many tears to furiously blink back. They streamed down his face, running over chubby cheeks, and for the first time Jason remembered that the child who so adamantly declared his superiority over all living beings was only eleven years old. The cold glares and brattish sneers had gone, leaving in their place a frightened little boy who had just lost his big brother.

Rather awkwardly, Jason rose off the bed. Damian froze, turning stock still as he lumbered over. The kid’s panicked breath flared out of his nose as Jason's arm clumsily curled over one shoulder and hugged the child into his front.  His body, tightly pressed against Jason’s, went rigid.

“Todd,” He mewled in protest. His voice, small and infantile, broke.

“Don’t.” Jason rumbled, looping the other arm around the small of Damian's back. “It’s happening. Get over it.”

Damian shivered against him, the tiny form wracked in tremors as he quietly sobbed. Jason had teased the kid about his height in the past, but he’d never noticed exactly how short the boy really was. Standing this close, it was painfully obvious just how tall the Wayne really was. The head of unruly ebony curls just barely came up to his chest. Eleven. He remembered, suddenly feeling sick. Damian was  _eleven._

Younger than him or Tim when Bruce had taken them in. And he’d already been here, been  _Robin_ , a year.

“Father is wrong to trust Wilson.” Damian whispered softly, the words muffled through the fabric of Jason’s biker jacket.

“I know kiddo." He hugged Damian in tighter. He sighed. "Bats may be the world’s greatest detective but he can be as dumb as a lobotomised dodo sometimes.”

Damian only sniffled in response.

Jason didn’t comment, didn’t say anything lest he scare the youngster away, when two hands wound themselves weakly round his waist. For all the denouncements of his brothers, he found himself thinking he could get used to this.

“He will betray us the minute it suits him.” Damian hiccupped through the last of his tears. He turned his head, staring up at Jason. “It is inevitable.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, promise. But in return you have to go see Dick. He’s still your brother, just a little bit, different.”

“But he doesn’t remember me.” Damian whimpered, sounding worriedly like he was about to start crying again. Jason quickly patted his back.

“Kid, he didn’t remember me at first either.”

“He didn’t?” Damian asked quietly.

Jason chuckled. “First time he saw me he tried to kill me. Almost managed to too. I thought I was a goner. But he didn’t. Flew out the window last second instead. He’ll remember you too. Just give him a little time.”

“I suppose I have nothing planned this evening.”  Damian grumbled half-heartedly.

“Atta boy.” Damian quaked, trembling like a leaf as Jason’s hand mushed his hair further out of control.

After what felt like an eternity to him – and probably Damian too – two little hands pushed weakly at his front. Obliging, he let go, dropping his arms down to his sides and Damian pulled away, sniffing. He ran a hand over his nose, scrubbing the last of tears away. Jason watched silently as the boy drew himself to full height, parts of arrogance returning – albeit a little softened – as he pieced his composure back together.

“This is not forgiveness. Do not think for any iota of a second that I have accepted you as my sibling, or forgotten what you did with Grayson.”

Jason smiled thinly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Damian nodded stiffly. He turned then padded unsteadily out the room and down the corridor. 

Jason frowned. Had that just really happened? God, he was going soft. First Tim, now Damian. Was he starting to actually get on with his brothers? Well shit, wasn't that some huge psychological break through. Oh well, maybe that was good. Dysfunctional hadn't worked. He'd got angry, murderous, locked himself away and declared he wanted none of their bs because _of course_ he could deal with fucking PTSD on his own and Tim had got... nearly dead, left a bundle of anxiety and panic attacks and Damian had got madder and madder until the kid was just a ball of walking talking anger issues and Dick...Dick had been stuck in the middle trying to keep them from all killing each other. Jason paused, another pang of guilt nearly leaving him doubled over. Maybe it was time they actually tried functioning as a family. He sighed, blowing air through his nose as he skimmed a hand through his hair. Fuck, what was Dick doing to him?

Later. He decided as he stumbled past the door. He could think about that later. Right now he had somewhere to be. Jason hated to agree with his younger spawn on anything, but he was on the same page as the kid here. Trusting Slade with anything, especially anything related to the original boy wonder was a bad idea. He just hoped it didn’t come back to bite them in their ass like any villain 'redemption' arc normally did.

Who was he kidding? Of course it would.

 


	31. Oh Bats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean you've already got your weekly chapter? Oh well, have another, and look, it's time for the formal introduction of Bruce, the Bad Decision Making Robot

Bruce sighed, scrubbing fingers over the wrinkles on his forehead. He tipped the glass in his hand back without really looking at it, downing the whole thing in one go. The scotch burned through his mouth, the heat biting through his mind, the lingering taste acrid on his tongue. He stared straight ahead, haunted eyes following the churning flames in the fireplace, wondering where his life had gone so wrong.

The answer was easy. Jason.

His back hunched. The glass dropped out of his fingers, shattering on impact as it hit the floor. He’d get Alfred to clear that up later. His hands clasped together, kneading under his chin. He drew in a deep shaky breath.

The long complicated relationship with Dick had broken him. But losing Jason had destroyed him. He knows what a mess he’d become after that night. He remembers drinking from the bottle until the world faded away into merciful darkness. The days of not eating, not sleeping, not doing anything but sitting on Jason’s bed staring at the door waiting for his son to come through. Looking into the mirror and finding greying hairs and broken eyes. Running his hands over his face and not really realising how much stubble had grown until one day he looks in the mirror and finds he has a beard. Dealing with the crippling grief and failure because the boy’s death was his fault. If he’d got there in time, three or four minutes instead of charging up that slope as the warehouse exploded in front of his eyes, Jason wouldn’t have died. That was his fault. And not knowing his son had come back a deranged madman until he had come back to his home and left a bloody trail of crimson in his wake, that had been his fault too.

And then things had got better. For a while. Dick was talking to him again. Jason wasn’t actively going out of his way to kill Tim anymore. Somewhere along the way Damian had come along and filled a space in the family none of them knew had even been there. Nightwing was cleaning up Bludhaven. Gotham had a Batman and a Robin and a Red Robin to watch her back. Red Hood even agreed to help out in emergencies. He was starting to relax – or as much as paranoia enabled.

And then Dick had disappeared. And Bruce had lost a son all over again.

Except this time he didn’t even have a body to bury.

This time it would be different, he'd promised fiercely. This time I'll find him in time.

He’d torn the city apart. Chased down anyone, _anyone_ , Joker, Dent, Talia, Ra’s, who might have taken him. Who might, he’d hoped, have been keeping a Bat somewhere secret. And alive.

It was horrible, wishing that Dick was just being tortured in the hands of one of his enemies. But better his son tortured than dead. Please God, Bruce had begged, every night crashing through Gotham’s night sky like a demon possessed. Don’t let him be dead. Don’t take another one from me.

The sleepless nights returned with a vengeance. He didn't eat. He didn't shave. He drowned the pain in the bottom of bottles. He spent all day in the Cave hunched over the computer and all night prowling Gotham's streets, ransacking every safehouse and razing every criminal hideout to the ground. His heart could have been ripped out of his chest and served to him on a silver platter and he wouldn't have even noticed.

He got reckless, stopped dodging bullets. Took knife fights against knuckles. Semi-violent moves turned ruthless. Gotham's criminal underworld cowered. Gotham's public turned against him.

Jason shoved up new walls. Tim wouldn't look away from the city's CCTV footage. Damian pushed him away. Robin dealt with Dick's disappearance just as well as he did; sneaking out and holding criminals at blade point demanding they tell him where Nightwing was.

Intensive care wards filled up, beds stuffed to burst with the city's worst of the worst. He didn't give a damn. 

He stopped answering League comms. He walled himself up in the Cave, only ever going out in the cover of darkness. Only ever venturing out to Gotham or Bludhaven to hunt the cities for his lost boy.

Against his wishes Superman came to the city. Clark didn't so much ask as threw his front door off its hinges and demanded to know what happened. He joined the search but not even the Kryptonian could find Nightwing. 

One by one members of the League came and searched. One by one they left after having found nothing.

After a month he’d given up on ever seeing his first son again.

A week later the League held a memorial. Bruce didn't go.

He still searched but the chances of finding Dick still alive after all this time were next to impossible.

And then Red Hood had disappeared off the grid, taking with him a mysterious masked man and it turned out Bruce had failed again. Hadn’t known that another son had been in the hands of a madman all this time and he hadn’t saved him.

He’d failed.

And Dick had come back a monster for it.

Maybe it was selfishness that made him lock Dick away. He lied to himself, said he was doing it to keep his other family safe. That Dick was unstable and might lash out. But deep down he knew he’d locked his son up to keep him out of sight. Swept him out of the way like dust under the carpet. So that each day he didn’t have to look another of his failures in the eye.

Bruce watched as the flames leapt higher, greedily devouring the logs and hungrily snapping at the fireguard, yearning to be let out.

Tim probably thought he was insane for not asking the League to help. A thin, sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Jason was, no doubt, calling him a lobotomised dodo sometime around now. Still he had his reasons.  Maybe there was selfishness in that too. He hated calling for help just as much as he hated having other capes in his city. Asking the League meant admitting he wasn’t able to keep his own family safe. And he would grudgingly admit deep down he didn’t want the team to see exactly how broken the Batman really was. He had no desire to be Dinah’s next therapy patient and he got enough worried calls from Kent asking how he was without the alien even having seen him at his worst.  

But there was real logic too. Putting it straight he couldn’t risk any of them seeing Dick, at least not until the worst of the damage had been healed.

He didn’t want to stain them. They shone so bright, Diana so full of hope for the human race and Clark, Truth, Justice and the American Way. He couldn’t let them see how dark the world truly was. How far the monsters would go. That some people would take a child and torture them, put a bullet through their eyes all for the sake of a sick joke.

He needed them to keep that hope, to keep believing that true goodness still existed someplace in the world. That humanity was still worth fighting for. He was never that naïve, it was far too late for him to believe in their universe like they did, the blind faith of little boys and girls who so dutifully believed in white knights and fairies and other sorts of make believe.

Something so beautiful yet so very, very fragile.

The League had known Dick. They all had their sidekicks but Robin had been the original. Years before Kid Flash or Speedy had even appeared on the scene Dick was getting piggy back rides off Barry, playing the floor is lava with (to his immense displeasure) Oliver Queen (who he swore was a bigger child than the eleven year old swinging off his light fixtures) and baking cookies in the Manor’s kitchen with Kent. All of the heroes had watched the boy grow into a man; Dinah still had the photo of a beaming twelve year old Dick blowing out birthday candles in her wallet. Hal still had the snapshots he’d taken when he’d come over to babysit when Bruce was away on the occasional off-world mission.

If there was one thing that could push Superman over the edge it was seeing what had happened to the sweet little boy who had pouted and begged Uncle Clark for magic carpet rides.  

If they saw what their boy had become…no, he couldn’t risk it.

The League loved Dick too much. Even grown up they’d cooed and aawed and doted over him. As the beloved once leader of the Titans and the Young Justice League he was the backbone of the cape community. Dick had made everyone happy. Just like he now made Jason.

Because Jason was, for once happy. The happiest Bruce had seen him in a very long time. His second son was staying in his house. He’d been here almost a week and hadn’t even thrown anything at a wall. He wasn’t storming off out the door screaming that he hated them all. To the best of Bruce’s knowledge he hadn’t even tried to kill his brothers. Something had very obviously changed between his two sons when they were on the run. Something that had left Jason softened and protective of his elder brother. And maybe even caring for his two younger. Tim wasn't jumping at Jason's voice anymore, he'd even heard Damian call Jason by name at dinner.  

Which was why Bruce hadn’t told any of his sons about all the horrible doubts that fired through to the forefront of his mind whenever he thought of Dick’s return. Because the more and more he thought about it the more suspicious he became. It had been a miracle that the Mansion hadn’t been attacked yet, from what Tim and Damian had reported of their run-in with the Talons it was clear the Court had the resources to launch a full-scale assault to retrieve what they had lost.

And yet they hadn’t.

They were waiting for something, but what?

Bruce let out a frustrated growl.

Whatever it was, the underlying message was painfully clear. Dick was only here because they allowed it. Nightwing was running on borrowed time and when they decided that time was up they would come to collect what they thought they were owed.

Which only led him to further believe that whoever this Court were, they were trying to break their spirits, as well as their bodies. What better way to emotionally cripple a cape then by showing everyone’s favourite hero tortured and broken near beyond repair, then whisk him away again the moment he started getting better?

All the more reason to hide him from sight.

The League couldn’t know. His sons couldn’t know – losing Dick a second time, knowing that the time they shared with their brother was likely to come crashing to a halt at any moment, it would kill them. Bruce had been left all alone. Totally and utterly alone. Until he had an idea. A horrible, awful idea that he knew his sons – especially Jason would never okay. Because other heroes couldn’t know, but Slade could. Super enhanced Slade with all his skill and the kind of information networks that Bruce would never condone, but that he could use. He didn’t have to worry about the hitman going off the deep-end on a murderous spree either. The villain had nowhere further to fall. Moreover the mercenary was obsessed with his first son, he would never willingly allow another rogue to have him.

The plan formed quickly. It was manipulative. It was necessary. It was every other bad name Jason had ever called Batman. Jason, Tim and Damian would remain oblivious. They'd break Dick out soon, honestly he was surprised Jason hadn't tried to already. His sons had never been the obedient, listen to orders type. He'd act furious, of course, probably suspend them from night activities for a while. That'd give them chance to spend time with their brother, to repair old bonds and forge new ones. To properly become a family. They'd have the chance of happiness Bruce had never been able to give them, while he secretly worked to bring the Court down. If it came to it and he hadn’t stopped the cult before the Court came crashing down on their heads they would fight, even knowing next to nothing he knew they would fight till the last breath before letting Dick go again.

He didn’t want to involve Slade. He really, really didn’t want to involve Slade. He had no doubt the man would double cross him no sooner than the competition had been cleared. But he could use the numbers if it did come to a fight and it was their tiny group against the Talon army. And he could use the villain’s presence to distract his sons and keep them off his trail. It was dire straits and as much as he hated to admit it, they’d need at least some help if everyone was coming out of this alive.

So he swallowed his pride and contacted Slade. One meeting on a darkened rooftop and five hundred thousand dollars out of his account later and Wilson had agreed to show up ‘unexpectedly’ on the Manor doorstep.

The meeting had been setup, the terms pre-agreed. Most of it was re-enacted. _Most of it._ He’d come close to calling the whole thing off when Slade had demanded something that hadn’t been in their original agreement. Time with Dick.

 _That_ reaction, that anger, was real. He’d been halfway to leaping out of his seat, yanking Slade out of his chair and body slamming him into the wall when he caught himself and remembered why exactly he had forgone his dignity and asked a murderer to protect his son.

He hated selling Dick’s life to Slade, but if it meant saving his soul-

“Twenty-five minutes.” Slade’s one eye sparkled with smug mirth as it met his gaze, shining, daring him to say no so that he could expose the whole thing. He had him over a barrel and worse - the villain knew it.

He’d ground his teeth and shook the offered hand.

And now all of his sons hated him. His eldest was so terrified he couldn’t even be in the same room as him. Jason had made his loathing perfectly clear. Even Damian and Tim had turned against him.

Good.

He raised his eyes to the painting hung up above the mantle.

Better they hate him than lose their happiness.

Batman was always the city’s dark knight. His name whispered with fear whilst his partner’s sparked hope. Batman would keep his shadows and his secrets. And Robin would continue to be the city’s sunlight.

Bruce frowned grimly as the Bat signal burst through the clouds. He lumbered over to the window, pulling the cowl over his head.

Duty called.

He crouched on the ledge, fired the grapple with expert precision and shot off into the night.


	32. Baby Bird

Talon’s head raised sharply, the slap of soles on the floor explosions detonating in his ears. He winced, wishing whoever was coming would be a little more  _quiet._ Heavy-footed, the make of shoe bearing too much weight to be standard leather. Male, somewhere between 6 to 7 foot tall, standard military issue boots.

Not a Bat, but not a civilian either.

He looked up, into the glow of blue orb that met his gaze after a brief sweep of his entire body. He didn’t let his surprise show. He shouldn’t have even been surprised at all. From what the Court had said about the Batman he should have guessed the man would consort with others of his kind, but there was a part in him  _Richard_ that was goggling at the single sight of seeing Deathstroke in the Batcave.

In all honesty he was disappointed it wasn’t Jason.

His head slumped. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Charming as always Grayson.”

Talon shuddered at the name, hiding his pain behind an insulted harrumph. He cocked his head, hoping his audience hadn’t noticed the reaction.

“How did you get in? The Bat is not the kind to let you just walk in.”

Slade smirked. “As a matter of fact I rang the doorbell.”

“And I’m Santa Claus.” Talon said flatly. Sarcasm. Jason would be proud.

“I see eight week’s imprisonment still hasn’t taped that mouth shut. Or perhaps it has. You used to be so much more-“

“Handsome? Witty? Smart?” The words had fallen out of Talon’s mouth before he could stop them.

The man-  _Slade_ (screams building in his throat, a rooftop, a weapon raised, a voice in his ear and nononono he didn’t want to hurt them) sneered. “Annoying.”

Talon fell silent, fighting to stay straight-faced as more snapshots of a life – his life – poured through.  

( _T_ _hat sounds like a threat, young man. Quite a good threat, actually. Betrayal, destruction, revenge. We really do think alike.)_

Slade strolled closer, taking one step then another, until he was standing in front of the pane, looking in at Talon as if he were an exotic animal on display. Talon made a strangled sound, the whimper escaping before he could swallow it.

“What’s wrong birdie, too afraid to sing for me? Shame. You always made the most beautiful sounds. The screams were always especially…exciting.”

The words Talon had been about to say gurgled and died on his tongue. He pushed the instinct to run back, imagining it packed into a box then shoving it away into the furthest parts of his mind, banishing it to the same place as the other things he liked to forget. Memories of his first kill, the tears in his eyes as he finally took the blade offered, giving into the voices and accepting that he really was alone, that no one was coming to save him- things he needed to ignore or else he’d go insane. Despite his best efforts Talon felt bile rise up, nausea sitting deep in his stomach as he stared at the eyepatch.

Talon sighed, deciding it best to find out what the strange man needed. That way he might go away faster. He controlled his voice, keeping it balanced and free of the panic inwardly pulling his mind apart. The timbre was rough but free of terror and for the first time he felt grateful to the Court for beating out any of the cracks that came with fear.

He hid the churn of his emotions behind a tired glare. “I don’t know you but Jason tells me we have history. What do you want?”

“A lot of things.” Slade answered smoothly with a wide smile. Talon shivered, not liking how possessive it looked. Nor the implication behind it. “But my interests currently align with your family, so here we are.”

“What a wonderful world.” Jason snarked waspishly as he stomped into view. “Going senile already gramps? Cuz I don’t remember Brucie giving you permission to go walkies solo.”

Talon’s eyes fell immediately to the newcomer. Jason’s breath was strained, heavy deep gasps torn from his chest as if he’d just finished sprinting a marathon. His eyes wavered between guilt-stricken wrenches over Talon’s body (feet, legs, chest, but never the face) and suspicious glares thrown at the mercenary. Still avoiding staring at Talon’s face Jason moved, slouching against the cave wall. One leg had been casually lifted and jammed into the rock face but the rest of Jason’s appearance was anything but. Even in the darkened shadows Talon could see the crossed arms, set jaw and fuming glower clear as day. Relief came, sharp and heavy. Jason had not abandoned him to the one called Deathstroke.

Slade chuckled dryly. He stared ahead, his eyes never leaving Talon’s even as he addressed Jason. “You were taking your time and I do not like mine to be wasted.”

Jason’s hand tracked slowly to one knee, covertly hiking the trouser leg up an inch past his ankle. Talon followed the movement, a slight twitch in the corner of his lips his only reaction to the flash of silver tucked above one sock.

“Do tell me if he starts bothering you, Dickie.” Knuckles cracked and the knife disappeared back under the trouser leg. “I’d love to have a reason to shut him up.”

Slade’s head swung the slightest bit, just enough for Jason to see the smirk on his lips. “As if you’d be able.”

“Seemed perfectly capable of it last time we fought, right jello-legs?” Jason jibed, grinning as Slade's fingers clenched, his hands briefly fisting into the sides of his slacks before unclenching and letting go.

“Results of under-estimation and a cheap parlour trick, nothing more. And I can assure you it will not happen again.” Slade hissed, though Jason could tell he’d gotten under the mercenary’s skin. Slade looked about ready to relieve him of his own at any moment.

Jason snorted. “Like I’ll believe you've never fought dirty.”

Talon’s head was buzzing again – something pulling at the edge of his consciousness, trying to fight its way through.  _More memories_. 

(A room, a corkboard with string stretching a crimson spider's web of clues.  _Trust is easy to destroy, but it takes time to build_ )

“Jason, what have you done?” He choked out before the memories could pull him properly under.

Jason’s eyes flickered, but didn’t rise past Talon’s neckline. “What makes you think this has anything to do with me?”

“I may have only known you a short time but you do seem the sort that attracts trouble.”

Talon answers and Jason gasps. He clutches a hand dramatically over his chest, wounded. “You might have no memories but sometimes new you can still be just as much as a prick as old you.”

And shit he realises his mistake just as the words – stupid stupid stupid – tumble out of his mouth but it’s too late, he can’t take them back and his expression turns horrified, right at the same moment Dick freezes, just goes entirely still, eyes flashing  _hurt_ as they lock with his – the two of them finally meeting for the first time since Jason slunk in. But this time it isn’t Jason who avoids Dick, it’s Dick who looks away from Jason, his wounded stare breaking away and sweeping across the floor, unable to hold the gaze.

Jason Todd fucks up again.

“I hate to interrupt this lover’s tiff-“ Slade sounds anything but. “But this conversation is limited. And being held for good reason.”

Jason fumes at the reminder. Fucking Bruce.

“Yeah yeah, don’t get your panties in a pickle. You’ve still got twenty precious minutes with the birdy.”

Twenty minutes, now  _supervised._  

He’d always thought if given the chance the merc would be able to break into the Cave. Either with brute strength, by outsmarting the system, or from Dick Unable to Keep a Secret Grayson spilling all those security codes.  He’d used to feverishly pray it would be the latter, he even had his victory speech picked out when it happened; your golden boy not so golden anymore huh, Brucie. He’d been ready to pop the champagne and celebrate, now he just felt sick, knowing that Slade could so easily have access to the same idiot who was known in most villain circles not as Boy Wonder but as Boy Hostage.

“Excellent.” Slade sneers in his best Montgomery Burns impersonation.

Jason switches off – honestly he’s really not interested in listening to Slade trot out the evil villain monologue he’s already heard fifty gazillion times and he still feels far too guilty about the whole lying to Dick about his family to go anywhere even near his eyes.

He’s on thing 27 of what better he could be doing with his time right now when he realises that he hasn’t heard Dick speak in a while. Which means either Slade’s speech has finally bored him to sleep or something has gone horribly wrong. Knowing his luck it's the latter. And when he looks up sure enough the ex-Talon is still standing where he was, only now his lips are shuttering open and closed and his eyes are rolling in their sockets terrified in the middle of what appears to be a complete psychotic meltdown.

Slade was still speaking so Jason puts the self-flagellation on the back burner and actually listens.

“…was it like?” Slade breathed. “To finally kill a man? To cross that line you said you never would?”

Dick froze like he’d just seen a ghost. His body turned stiff as a plank, his limbs locking up leaving him uselessly rooted to the spot. His chest jerked, breaths coming in short rabbit jumps of choked gasps that sound like he was drowning or suffocating or doing both at the same time.

Yeah no, time for Jason to derail this trainwreck of a conversation.

“My turn to interrupt.” Jason smiles sweetly but inside he’s fuming, bloody pissed off is an understatement – he’s filled with so much with so much hot fiery rage he’s surprised smoke isn’t pouring out of his ears. Because Jason knew, he fucking knew letting Slade see Dick was a bad idea – the worst Bruce has ever had, and the man had written the book on bad decisions. Slade nearly made Dick  _cry_  – something Jason’s not sure is even biologically possible for Talons but one thing he is hella sure of is if he finds even one tear on Dick’s cheek, truce or no truce he’s going to skin Slade alive and hang his soggy, skinless corpse up to dry.

The merc doesn’t move to let him through, not that Jason cares, he just stomps over and shoulders his way between Slade and the cell pane.

“Back off Slade.” He thunders, barely able to keep the growl out of his voice as he faces the bastard down.

“Or what?” Slade purrs. He actually sounds interested to see what Jason would do. Like he wanted to see how far Jason would go.

Well bub there was a long line between something classified as technically still alive and heart stopped, not waking up dead and if Slade kept pushing he was about to find out exactly how far that line went.

“Or I take this.” Jason waves the knife that he’d snatched off his belt in the air – in that moment he’s so, so glad he came armed to the teeth and decked out in more weaponry than both Fort Knox’s and the Pentagon’s security stores put together. Be prepared and all that shit. “And shove it through that other fucking eye.”

Slade laughed, and Slade’s laugh sounded like an evil villain’s maniacal laugh if Jason ever heard one. It’s not crazy, and maybe that’s what scared him the most. Slade isn’t demented or fucked up in the head, not like Joker or Penguin or any of Batman’s other enemies. He’s smart, cold, calculated. Military precision, that’s what Slade is. Every one of his moves is put together, clean, decisive. Joker, Penguin, Dent, they’re crazy, chaotic. They make mistakes. They have emotions. They’re at the very least still a little human. Deathstroke is mechanical, more machine than man. If Joker's a Jack-in-the-box of murderous randomness then Slade is the smooth snapping forward of a gun slide as the magazine empties. Clinical and precise and oh so very dangerous. Lock, load, shoot. Lock, load, shoot.   

Slade laughs and in that sound Jason remembers conversations, long ago, on a rooftop. A depressed Dick standing in the rain, usual hundred-watt smile gone and in its place a sad little frown as he bawled, confessing that he’d hurt them, his friends. He’d betrayed them and they’d never forgive him.

He remembers sneaking through the halls, unable to sleep, still hyped after his first patrol as Robin. Going past Dick’s door and hearing the screams of Renegade.

The files on the Batcomputer that had been locked behind walls of code, out of the prying eyes of nosy teenagers. Kept out of reach for good reason.

Slade terrified Dick. And on the inside, he terrified Jason.

Scared him totally shitless to be honest. But he’d rather die for a second time than let the man know.

“What’ll you do boy? Kill me?” Slade presses. He’s so close, so bloody close and if Jason just reaches out a little he could so easily plunge the blade into the asshole’s throat.

“Sorry sweet cheeks, you’re just not my type.” He drawls and then he does something that’s probably incredibly stupid. Downright insane, actually. But then again he’d never been the sensible type. He reaches up and pats Deathstroke. On the cheek. Pulls a little at the fat too, like a grandma chubs the faces of her grandchildren.

The atmosphere crackles between the two of them, electric. It’s like a Mexican standoff except both the other guns are pointed at his head. Jason’s not just playing with fire he’s playing with nuclear warheads.

One moment passes then another. Still he doesn’t relax his body and it’s a good thing he doesn’t because it means suddenly being slammed into the cave wall hurts a lot less than it would if he hadn’t been prepared and able to angle his body for impact.

Knowing it’s coming still doesn’t stop all the air from being knocked out of his body. He gulps a deep breath, shaking stars out of his vision and when the fuzz clears Slade’s hands are fisted into the front of his jacket, his rancid breath – a mix of scotch and old man musk – rolling hot and heavy against Jason’s skin. He'd pulled to his full height, that eye bearing down all murderous intent and intimidation tactics only a little above Jason’s head.

“You wanna dance sugar?” Jason grits through his teeth, his head still buzzing from where it hit rock. In the background he can just barely hear Dick squawking in outrage. “Let’s dance.”

He knows Slade with all his super strength, can snap his neck like a mouldy twig if he wanted. But that doesn’t mean Jason’s totally defenceless; he’s not used to playing damsel in distress and just to prove his point he jostles the knife blade, just a little, so that it’s digging a tiny bit deeper into Slade’s stomach, poised right above the merc’s ribs.

“Remember Robin.” Slade twists the name and it sounds all wrong coming out of his mouth. “You’re only here because I allowed it.”

Fifteen seconds. Fifteen bloody seconds. That’s all he gives Jason. Then his hands drop away, palms dusting over his slacks like Jason’s touch is some kind of disease he doesn’t want to run the risk of catching. His gaze returns to Dick, smiling his wolfish grin with that same possessive edge to it.  

“Both of you are.”

Slade's smile widens, showing a little teeth and suddenly Jason’s just about ready to barf up his breakfast.

He remembers when he first met Deathstroke as Robin and Dick, sweet, foolish self-sacrificing Dick stood in front of him and even shivering, beaten up and limping off one leg, begged Slade to shoot him instead.

He remembers fingers slippery with blood jamming that distress signal over and over again, begging Bruce to appear as one of Slade’s hands grip Dick’s throat until the fingers scrabbling at Slade’s wrist fall limp at battered sides. He remembers that fucking laugh echoing in his ears as Slade slings a semi-conscious Nightwing onto his shoulders like he weighs nothing. He remembers the blinding panic that splatters snot and tears over his uniform as Slade’s foot reaches for the first rung of the helicopter ladder that just dropped down onto the rooftop beside him. He remembers the Batman arriving like a hailstorm of fire and brimstone, crashing into Slade before the mercenary can disappear with Dick forever.

He remembers the medical patch-ups after, watching Dick’s passed out body slumped in the back of the Batmobile as behind the wheel Bruce rages that he wasn’t anywhere near Deathstroke’s level yet. Asking if he knows what an idiot he’s been, if he realised he would’ve died tonight if Dick hadn’t been there to find him.

He remembers, and he sees the tiny flash of fear before it disappears into the emptiness of Dick’s eyes and he wonders if Dick remembers that night too.

The timer chooses that moment to go off in his pocket, the welcome screech abruptly ending any further discussion in that particular conversation.

“Woops, well looks like time’s up for today.” Jason sings cheerily. “C’mon, move it along Gramps,” He adds, clearing his throat impatiently when Slade doesn’t.

Slade makes a noise that sounded like a cross between something human and a hissing alley cat being strangled by an out of tune violin string.

Jason chuckles as he snaps the blindfold over Slade’s still seething face, basking in a little schadenfreude of his own. “Cya next time Dick!” he hollers, hurriedly waving goodbye over his shoulder as he ushers the man none too gently away. And if he accidentally misguides the mercenary into any stray rock faces on the way back? Well Bruce never said anything about non-life threatening maiming.

...

Damian Wayne was not scared as he descended the last of the Cave’s steps and forced one foot in front of the other down the corridor towards Dick’s holding cell. Wayne-Al Ghuls didn’t get scared. The shudder up his shoulder was  from the cold, nothing more, the prickle in his eye was just his pupils trying to get used to the dark and the lump in his throat was just a sign of a oncoming illness that he’d probably caught off of Drake’s terrible hygiene habits.

No Damian was not scared, and he did not falter. Not when he walked down those steps nor when he rounded the last bend in the corridor before Dick’s cell. His stomach lurched unhappily and he found himself looking back on that slice of homemade carrot cake he’d stolen off Drake’s plate with regret. He sighed. No one had seen him slip down, he could very easily just walk back the way he’d came and no one would ever know he’d been down here.

He hesitated, warring with whether to turn back or forge ahead.

“Jason?” A soft voice keened into the darkness, and suddenly Damian’s decision was made.

“No,” he coughed awkwardly into a fist. “Not Jason. I could fetch him though, if you would like?”

Damian tried to pretend he wasn’t waiting with bated breath, wouldn’t have disappointment and self-loathing crashing down on his shoulders if Dick said yes, confessed that he’d prefer Jason, that he was picking the street rat  _again_  over him.

“No.” Dick’s voice rang, slightly muffled, echoing his earlier words quietly. “It’s alright, you should stay.”

Damian let go of the breath he’d been holding and trotted slowly, not reluctantly, into Dick’s line of sight.

Grayson’s new appearance was still somewhat startling; he had still not grown using to seeing his brother blonde, even if the dye job was shoddy (Todd’s handiwork no doubt) and strips of black still leaked through. He found he was still unable to look Richard properly in the eyes. Seeing broken gold instead of sparkling aqua was still too painful.   

“Oh.” Dick’s form rose off the bed he’d been sitting on to ghost over to the panel, swimming through the air with the grace only Nightwing could ever possess. “Hello Baby bird.”

In his life few things had ever flustered Damian. This was one of them.

“How do you know that name?” He meant it to come out as a demand but his voice quivered and the words squeaked instead of commanded, a feeble stutter instead of the mighty roar he had intended.

“Hum? Oh, it’s up here.” Dick hummed thoughtfully before gracefully sweeping an arm up and tapping a finger against his temple. “Swimming around in soup.” Teeth flashed in a lopsided grin. “That’s what Jason says anyway. That it’s all just swimming around here in soup. People, places, names. We just have to wait, and one day they’ll all just tip out.”

He gave a broken laugh. Old Grayson’s laugh had always made you feel like the sun could still shine, even when the skies were dark and raining. This Grayson’s laugh was flat. It’s a dead thing, just like this Dick’s eyes. Damian swallowed. That was the worst difference in the two Graysons, he decided. They had killed his brother’s joy. Before, Grayson had been an endless vacuum of cheer, a bottomless pit of cheer with an endless supply of bright smiles that he’d never seen stop, not even through the worst the world had offered. Falter, yes. And freeze on occasion. But never completely stop. Now those eyes had lost their shine. The mouth was set in a grim line and even the strange, ticked up corners he offered in the beginnings of smiles lacked any of their comforting glow. In two months the Court of Owls had sucked all the happiness from Richard's face.

“It’s nice to know you’re not just a dream.” Dick whimpered softly. “It’s nice to know I’m not totally cuckoo.”

Damian's hands clenched to fists. “I assure you I’m perfectly real Grayson.”

Dick snorted. “Of course. That is the sort of thing you’d say.”

“You know me?” Damian whispered. Could barely bring himself to believe-

“Uh-huh. Up here.” Dick tapped his temple again. “There’s a boy in a library with a dog curled at his feet. And a Baby Bird in a bed with a blanket up to his chin. And a flash of green and red and yellow as a Robin soars through the night.”

Damian smiled. A brilliant, glowing smile that stretched from one ear to the other. He had never been this happy – not even on the night he was finally allowed his birth right and became Robin. Every piece of praise he had shrugged off, every good word he had treated as nothing but secretly clung onto, every hug he had ever protested but inwardly enjoyed was nothing compared to this. This was pure euphoria. Everything was right again with the world. His brother had not abandoned him. Grayson still remembered him.

He threw away appearances and laughed aloud, the sound innocent and childlike. “You know me.” He repeated, breathless with amazement.

Dick gave his own giggle, nodding.

“You’re there when I close my eyes.” He wheezed, voice speeding up, volume rising as suddenly the face that had been smiling twisted to pain. He whimpered, distress spiking as shoulders trembled and caved. His body hunched over, collapsing in on itself as Dick’s eyes scrunched shut and his mouth contorted. The relieved grin faded as Damian’s happiness cut short. He panicked. Every part of him yearned to run to Grayson and throw his arms around the man but the glass was still in the way.

He could only watch as Dick slumped heavily to the floor, his body curling into a ball. Legs thrashed out in graceless kicks and the fingers that had rapped gently on Dick’s temples now clawed at them, nails sinking deep enough to draw thin beads of oily blood, scraping away as each cut healed and disappeared only to burst back open under a new onslaught.

“So many pictures." Dick choked. His voice raw. "Trilling away in the back of my brain and I’m drowning. Swimming in soup soup so much soup.” 

Dick opened his mouth and screamed. The sound fractured Damian’s heart, turning all his insides to ice.

Dick's eyes suddenly flew open, all recognition in them totally gone. They were wild, bulged wide with desperation. Dick’s humanity was gone too, his brother’s expression crazed as he threw himself at the glass. There was just a feral animal trapped inside a cage screaming to be let out.

Damian paused. His legs screamed to run, his heart begged to stay. He drank in a deep breath and stepped closer to the glass. He stooped down until he was eye level with Dick and gingerly rested his forehead against the panel.

“I was there when you closed your eyes and listen to me, _please_ , I will still be there when you open them.” He said gently, his voice no longer frosted, but unnaturally warm with feeling and care. “I am here for you. I promise.”

Slowly, insanity faded and intelligence returned to his brother’s expression. Dick blinked, panting heavily. Exhaustion caught up and his body crashed, slumping in a messy pile to the floor. 

 “I know you, I know I know you,” He repeated feverishly, giving a frustrated growl. "So why can't I remember you?" Both brows bunched together under a frown. His lips pursed, the lower pushed out only a light further than the upper in a puppyish pout. Damian almost laughed out loud, because it was the same look Dick always had when he’d encountered a puzzle he couldn’t solve or that time he’d tried to help him with his advanced business studies homework.

“I understand you might not remember what I am to you, but Dick I am your younger brother.” Damian whispered. He waited. He prepared himself for the worst. To know Dick didn’t remember who he was or even recall just his name – rather only a select few snapshots of his life and a feeling of familiarity – was a lot better than actually hearing the hero say it. He knew it was going to hurt, as Jason would so crudely say it, he knew it was going to hurt like a sonnofabitch. But he needed to hear it, if only to see how broken his brother truly was before he could set about restoring the pieces.

He expected blank emptiness but instead he looked up to find recognition reflected in Dick’s eyes, the man’s confusion giving way to a slowly spreading grin that had soon dominated his older brother’s entire face.

“Little D.” Dick muttered. “You’re my Little D.” He repeated louder, surer.

Damian froze, a rabbit in the headlights as Dick began to mumble names to himself.

"Daryl, Dylan, Daniel, Dennis-“

Damian harrumphed. He folded his arms, fixing Dick with the snootiest glare he could manage.

“I am certainly no Dennis.” He huffed, affronted it even be suggested.

Dick hummed his agreement. “No, you’re not a Dennis. Definitely a D, D- Damian! Oh Dami your report card, A in in PE I’m so proud!” He cried, suddenly leaping up and stretching his arms wide as if he were about to pick Damian up a full body bear hug, only to stop, blocked by the glass.

Damian’s arms dropped down to his side. His lower lip trembled, jaw working up and down. His mouth opened and shut but no sound came out as he looked at him. The mentor who’d practically raised him. The Batman to his Robin. The man who had remembered his name. Who had remembered he’d got an A in PE the same week he’d gone missing. Then for the second time that day Damian Wayne-Al Ghul broke down and cried.


	33. Fixing Broken Wings

Damian. Jason. Tim.

His brothers.

He remembered.

He had brothers.

Memories had been returning ever since his regular visits had increased, some of them blurred, some of them crystal clear. Of his family. Of his life.

And with them Richard’s presence. Not a ghost anymore, but an actual voice that spoke instead of whispered, sometimes even  _yelled_.

Yelled at him and told him how stupid he was being. The people he was letting dowm by running from his issues.

In his spare time Talon found himself thinking. And being trapped in a cell as he was with nothing to do but stare at walls all day, he had a lot of spare time.

Silly little thoughts popped into his head more and more with no explanation of why or where they’d come from.

_I wonder if Jason’s tried to kill Tim yet._

_What I wouldn’t give for one of Alfie’s cookies roundabout now_

_Why is Slade here. And why does he look like an oompa loompa on steroids?_

He sighed, eyes searching the cave wall. He’d given up staring out of the glass. Now he sat with his back pressed against it, knees drawn up to his chest even though he’d been taught for hours to sit on his heels. Why was he not sitting that way? The way they had beaten into him (head down, knees bent, heels tucked under, hands on floor, palms down)? Because it was uncomfortable. He’d never put any thought to what had been comfortable before, and yet now he was sat comfortably, almost  **casually**.

Now he smiled and laughed and cried.

Now he felt something other than the terrible emptiness and suffocating fear of failure.

Now he remembered a name that wasn’t Talon.

Talon was what the Court had made him. What he’d been shaped into. But now there was a before the Court. Before talon. Talon with a small 't' because he wasn't  _the_ Talon. Not anymore. Not now he knew that he'd had a life. Before he was a thing. he was.

He was

_Nightwing._

Blue and black. Wings of freedom painted on his chest as he  _soared._ A protector not a killer. Laughing as he fell from the sky, tricking gravity out of a kill at the very last second as the line snapped out and threw him back up to skim his fingers over clouds. Flipping off of chimneys and cartwheeling on the edges of rooftops. Flying not because of Orders but because he wanted to.

 _Robin._  

Her little bird. He had always been her little bird. Even when the rope snapped and he took on a different costume and flew for a different purpose. The colours a symbol of hope for the downtrodden.

_A Wayne._

Stuffy suits and fake smiles. Flashes of paparazzi.

_A brother._

Pulling Jason off of Tim before he could shoot the teen with anything more than a non-lethal glare, his intervention the only reason for why they hadn’t needed to chuck Jason or Tim or Damian’s bodies into another Green Gunk of Life.

Talonnightwingrobinrichard sighed mournfully, curling further into himself. His head buried under his hands, hoping that somehow that would be able to ease the pain, the agony cutting through his mind like a buzz saw.

_Hey idiot for the last time our name is Dick. Ugh, Richard makes us sound like some poncy shrivelled up eighty year old lord of state. And stop moping like an angsty teen, yeesh that’s totally Bruce’s thing. And before you ask anger issues are already taken too. Jace called dibs on that years ago._

Talonnightwingrobindick huffed as Richard’s presence yelled  **again**.

So what are we then?

He giggled. Sure, question the disembodied voice in your head. That isn’t a sign of crazy. Nope, perfect picture of sanity right there.

Dick was quiet. He had no answer for that.

He didn’t have to wait long for the silence to be broken though. The nervous pit-pat of feet pricked his ears and he bent his head stiffly, turning it just enough to see. One eye slid over the lanky teen that had shuffled over.   

Black hair. He’d had black hair once. They all had. All except Jason until eventually he'd dyed it black too. Bright red and stealth never mixed well. Even if the majority of Robin costume was red. He hadn't cared what Bruce had said. His family colours stayed. 

Tim. Black hair. Tall. Orphaned.

_Maybe the gossip columns were right and Bruce really did have a type._

Tim was alone. His hands were a blur of action, fingers sliding over themselves like they were solving invisible an Rubik’s Cube. A nervous habit he’d always had. Tim, much like Dick, was a serial fidgeter.

“Timmy.” The name was tight in Talon’sDick’s throat.

Tim lumbered closer though not as close as the others had come. TalonDick noted he was staying at least a metre away. His stomach clenched. Sadness – still such a strange emotion – speared his gut as he realised Tim didn’t trust him.

His brother’s eyes met his own, holding the gaze for 1,2,3 seconds before sliding away to study the wall behind him. “Hey Dick.”

Dick’s mouth set into a mournful little line. “Hello little brother.”

“How are you uh, finding things?” Tim asked, one hand awkwardly scraping over his elbow.

Dick chuckled, the sound rusty, still alien in his throat. “Terrible. The service here is awful, the wifi needs a password and I haven’t been able to find the free shampoos anywhere.”

Tim stared blankly at him for a moment. Then like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders the stress on his face melted away, the fretful pout of his lips bursting into a wide grin as his form collapsed into a fit of giggles of his own. He gasped for breath, wiping a tear from his eye.

He stepped forward. “God I’ve missed this.”

…

“What if I want the bed?” Damian screeched, incensed that it even be suggested that his royal highness sit on the *shocked gasp* carpet.

“My room, my bed.” Jason growled flatly, his hands pinned firmly to his hips as he stared the brat down.

Tim groaned loudly, dragging his nails down over his face.

“Oh my God, will the two of you stop it!? Jason you get the bed, Damian get off your highhorse and just sit on the damn floor already.”

Jason smirked as Damian knelt awkwardly on the carpet, not above poking his tongue out at the boy when their eyes met.

“I have gathered you all here today for one reason.” He began, trying not to focus on the sudden tightness in his throat. He’d chosen to call the meeting in his room because it guaranteed no Bruce butting in halfway through. Unfortunately it also came free with all you can heave panic attacks. His fingers tightened, fisting the quilt covers. On the floor, two sets of eyes stared back, one pair bloodshot and rimmed with worry, the other, Jason noted, was giving him the serious stink-eye. Damian had, it appeared, still not accepted having to sit on the floor.

 “We all want to help Dick.” He continued, clearing his throat and trying his best to ignore the snarls still spitting from Damian’s direction. “And we all think Bruce is being an asshole.”

Tim made a noise in the back of his throat. “Well I wouldn’t say asshole,” he began.

“Really?” Damian sneered. “And what word would you use Drake?”

“Er, idiot, emotionless robot,” Tim’s fingers nervously pulled at the loose threads on his sleeve. “Well okay, he’s being an asshole.” He conceded reluctantly.

Jason grinned. Seeing the goody two shoes try to badmouth Bruce was adorable. Like watching a baby Chihuahua trying to bark like the big bad scary bloodhounds.

“Exactly, he’s being a dick.” Jason summarised. He waited for any more arguments and smiled when none came. “And now that we’ve all agreed on that we can actually start this thing properly. I called you here because even though we’ve never acknowledged it, we’re a family. And it’s about fucking time we start acting like one. We’ve all seen Slade and Bruce around Dick. And I’m sure we can all agree they’re both making things worse.”

Both Robins nodded. ‘Worse’ was an understatement. It was Day Three of Slade moving into the mansion and already the three had each formed their own murder Deathstroke but make it look like an accident plans.

“I have seen how that monster acts around Grayson. He treats him like his property.” Damian spat angrily, thinking of how only yesterday the bastard had pushed Richard into reciting the worst of the Court’s punishments even as tears silently filled his eyes and burst free.

“Whatever this thing he has with Dick, it’s unhealthy.” Tim muttered, remembering his own shift; when Slade hadn’t stopped poking through Dick’s mind until his brother was a heaving sobbing mess screaming for him to stop. “I’m positive he’s actually enjoying it.”

“Glad you all agree.” Jason grinned cheerily. “That’s why I’m starting the Robin Revolution.”

“Robin Revolution?” Tim echoed in confusion.

 “Batman won’t help so we will.” Jason answered. He jabbed a thumb proudly into his chest. “We’ll be Dick’s very own Robin Personal Protection Squad.”

 Damian’s eyes narrowed. “We can’t stop Slade from seeing Grayson if Father allows it.”

“So we don't stop him then. But we do mark our territory.” Jason said casually, drumming his fingers over the edges of the bed.

“What?” Tim squeaked, the tips of his ears turning red.

“We show Slade Dick is ours.” Jason explained patiently. Honestly, he thought Tim was supposed to be the smart one.

“How?” Tim spluttered, his cheeks flaming as red as his ears.

“Owners often solidify their claim with a collar or gps tracker-“ Damian started.

“We are not chipping our brother!” Tim’s voice jumped up in volume as he shouted, shooting Damian a scandalised glare.

“It would mean we’d know where he was and you know how often he gets lost- okay, fine, no chips-“Jason finished hastily, holding both hands up in surrender as Tim’s death glare intensified. “Well he hasn’t attacked Bruce, or Deathstroke. And if he hasn’t attacked Slade then he won’t attack us. Which means Bruce can’t argue shit when we-“

“We let him out.” Tim’s face broke into a dopy smile as he cottoned on. “He’s stable.”

Jason rolled his eyes at the teen. “What’s that word I’m looking for? Oh yeah, uh duh.”

“Technically that’s two.” Tim corrected smugly.

“ _Technically,_  shutup Tim.”  Jason shot back sharply.

Tim coloured, shrinking in on himself. “Bruce won’t like it.” He added timidly.

Jason glowered. “Bruce can sod off. I am not sitting by while his inability to deal with even the slightest bit of emotion chases away the last person in the world who deserves this sorta shit to happen to him.”  

“I agree. Grayson should be free. Father is wrong to keep him locked up.”

“He can sleep in my room.” Jason volunteered. “Once we get him out he can sleep in my room.”

“I am not leaving Grayson to share a bed with you!” It was Damian’s turn to shout, scandalised. His eyes were bugged; pushing so far out of his head Jason was surprised they hadn’t just popped out of their sockets and onto the carpet.

“Geez kid when did you become such a grandma?” He muttered, grinning as Damian flushed.

“This place isn’t exactly short of space, Jason.” Tim pointed out with a smile.

“It’s not space I’m worried about, genius. Dick gets nightmares. Bad ones.” Jason explained quietly. “He needs me there beside him.”

Jason paused, his throat welling up. He remembered the mornings of fingers cautiously twining themselves over his, grasping onto his shirts and Dick’s face, terrified and worn down by lines he’d never used to have, wide eyes seeing into his soul as he plead.  _Don’t go I’m scared._  There, under the dying flickers of motel lights he’d never looked so vulnerable. So fragile. And Jason had relented and given an extra five minutes then ten –  _okay, we can stay like this a little longer._

He blinked, pulled back into the present as a stray tear slipped down one cheek. He was horrified to find that Damian and Tim were both watching him silently, the latter looking close to shedding a couple of tears of his own.  

“Okay Jason. He can stay in your room.” Tim managed to choke out eventually.

“I’m sorry.” Damian said in a small voice. “I didn’t realise-“

Jason dismissively waved a hand away. “It’s fine, kid. No harm done. Now that that’s sorted, I guess we should go break him out then.”

“Someone’s going to have to distract Bruce.” Tim muttered miserably. An uncomfortable silence fell as each of them looked grimly around the triangle, hoping that one of the others would be the one to bite the bullet and throw themselves on the sacrificial altar for Dick’s greater good.

 “I’ll do it.” Damian eventually volunteered quietly. He probably felt pushed into it by some sort of sense of guilt. Just like they were pushed into everything else in their lives. Jason grimaced. Their universe truly was fifty shades of fucked up.  

“I can cause a commotion.” Damian continued, smiling weakly. “It should give you at least ten minutes.”

Jason looked at Tim. The boy’s lips split in an impish grin.

“I can crack the codes on the door in maybe three minutes, four tops.”

Jason cracked his knuckles. “That’ll work.”

Tim’s eyes flitted to the door, as if expecting Batman to bust it down and burst in at any moment. “He won’t be happy when he finds out what we’ve done though.”

Jason snorted. “When is he ever?”

He stood, stretching his arms over his head before offering his hand out in the centre of the space separating their group in a move that Dick was never finding out about.  _Ever_. The bastard would never shut up if he learned all his team building exercises were actually paying off. Tim and Damian both obediently followed, standing and adding their own hands over his.

Jason caught their eyes, holding their gaze and offering each a grin. “Robin Personal Protection Squad on three. One, two, three.”

“Robin Personal Protection Squad.” The three of them chorused.  

“Okay.” Jason intoned seriously as he leafed through the pages of the binder in front of him (God Tim, could you be any more of a nerd?). “First act of RPPS. Break Dickie out. Second act of RPPS. Movie night.”

Tim groaned. “We have got to come up with a better name.”

…

True to his word, Damian had strode off, kicking up a fuss over whatever (Jason later learned that he took the Batmobile, the friggin’  _Batmobile_ , out for a joyride) that had Bruce hotfooting it out the door in full nightshift uniform faster than you could chant dananananana. From there it was more than easy to sneak down to the Cave where Dick was being held and crack the door code. They were all terrified of trying to get past Alfred (To the point where Tim had been assigned to stalk the halls solo on Butler Watch) but to their surprise the brit was a total no show, allowing Jason to smuggle Dick up the stairs and into his room totally unopposed. He was sure the old man was turning a blind eye on purpose, since nothing went on in the Manor without the butler knowing about it. His lack of presence was his way of telling them all he approved of their rebellion. Jason knew he’d always liked Alf for a reason.

Sure, when Bruce returned and found the cell empty he was, well furious didn’t even come close to describing it. All three of them were on the bench and in charge of washing the Batmobile (Damian had apparently accidentally on purpose crashed it into a river) for the next month. But with Dick already out and no half dead Jason to threaten him back into the cell there was fuck all Bruce could do. Even better, Alfred, who’d been seemingly oblivious to the jailbreak or the ex-assassin currently hiding in Jason’s bed, was siding with them, further proving his point that their grandfather-figure had purposefully turned a blind eye to the manor’s going ons. Which meant that Dick stayed upstairs and there was nothing Bruce could do about it.

After leaving Dick safe in the kitchen with the RPPS’s newest and honorary member Jason, Tim and Damian had retreated to the manor’s main sitting room. Curtains had been drawn shut, cushions had been plumped, blankets and duvets had been brought through from bedrooms and what could only be described as a feast laid out on the tables. Remembering Dick’s adverse reaction to flame the fireplace had been snuffed out and a portable space heater brought in. Drinks had been poured and Civvies exchanged for onesies – he didn’t even want to know why there was a Jason-sized onesie hidden away under spools of hot pink, glitter crusted wrapping paper in Dick’s closet (or how Tim knew about it).

Damian had snickered when he’d walked through the door with floppy wolf ears and a shaggy tail that hit the back of his knees when he moved. He wasn’t laughing for long though; any humour died a painful, painful death when Tim showed up (dressed as a unicorn. A pink unicorn with rainbow coloured horn and its own tail made of multi-coloured ribbons. Of course Dick got Tim a unicorn one, why was Jason even surprised anymore?) And handed him his own monstrosity.

“Aw Dami,” Jason cooed as the boy stomped back into the room.

“Is something amusing to you Todd?” Damian hissed, looking like he was about ready to gut someone open with his fingernails.

“No, but something is… amoosing.” Jason cracked up.

Damian shot him a filthy glare but that still didn’t stop him from humming Old McDonald under his breath. He’d just reached the chorus for the second time when Tim’s phone slid slyly out of the boy’s pocket. Damian saw the phone and threw himself on the floor like Tim was holding a bomb and not an Iphone. Jason stayed standing where he was but flipped a finger up just in time before the flash.

“If I ever see that on the Internet, I’m killing you.” He deadpanned.

Tim whistled innocently, hands held up in a silent  _who, me?_ gesture and Jason could almost see a halo floating above his head.

“I’m serious,” Jason continued. He approached the teen slowly, slinging one arm around Tim and dragging him in close.

“Wanna know the best thing about being a crime lord?” He whispered conspiratorially in Tim’s ear. “I know all the best places to hide a body.”

Tim blanched, his whistling suddenly cut off to a strangled  _meep._

…

All that was left before bringing Dick into the room was choosing what to watch. A simple decision in most families which in theirs nearly sparked off the third world war.

Jason wanted Winter Soldier, something he’d been saying/demanding for a good amount of the last ten minutes. If he was being forced to sit through family movie night he’d at least make sure they picked a good one.

“It’s a little too on the nose, isn’t it?” Tim pointed out. Sidekick turned brainwashed super soldier assassin. Jason had no idea what he was talking about.

“Maybe we should try for something a little less,” Tim paused, thinking of the right word. He eventually settled on “triggering?”

His own suggestion was Inception.

“Do you want to blow his mind?” Jason scoffed. “We want him happy, not questioning his own fucking existence.”

Both of them gaped, mouths hanging open and jaws dropped all the way to China when Damian suggested/wouldn’t settle for anything else but Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

“He did not just say that.” Jason deadpanned through a mouthful of popcorn. “Tell me he did not just say that.”

“That’s an 18!” Sister Timothy spluttered after recovering from nearly choking on his mug of coffee.

“So?” Damian’s nose crinkled.  

“So you’re not even  _twelve_!” Tim shouted in disbelief.

“My age is hardly of relevance,” the youngest retorted with a sneer.

“I shouldn’t be surprised.” Jason muttered. “I walked in on the brat watching Saw.”

Right in the middle of one of the worst torture scenes. And even more disturbing; he’d looked like he’d been enjoying it too.

“We’re all forgetting one thing.” Tim said softly, regaining his composure. “It isn’t what we want, it’s what Dick does.”

Oh yeah. The whole selflessness thing. He could do that. Even if it meant losing a little of his rep in the process.

He sighed, throwing a look towards the stacked shelf of DVDs. The collection had grown since he'd last been, but it was easy to guess whose was whose. The director’s cut of  _The Exorcist , Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ and the rest of the gore-fests on the bottom shelf were clearly Damian’s, _Inception, The Matrix_ and other such mind-fucks on the second shelf Tim’s. The third shelf was his own – and from the looks of it as untouched as his bedroom. _Pulp Fiction_ looked like it hadn’t been moved since the day he and Dick had watched it; still in costume and with massive bowls of ice cream (much to Alfred’s disproval). He hadn’t been allowed dessert for a whole week. Still, seeing Dick spend the next month trying to figure out what the hell was in the briefcase had made it all worth it.

Both the fourth and top shelves were very obviously Dick’s. Jason wrinkled his nose. Who else would want to watch such horror shows as _27 Dresses?_

He ran a critical eye over the contents. Most were rom-coms or boxsets of sitcoms, but he was not getting tricked into 236 episodes of Friends. Not again. Still, there was one thing he knew Dick loved even more than marathoning How I Met Your Mother.

He huffed. “Disney. Dick loved Disney.”

“Todd is correct; he used to subject me to those monstrous singalongs constantly.” Damian huffed, looking affronted, though there was a small glimmer in his eyes that told Jason the boy enjoyed it more than he let on.

“Disney it is then.” Jason said decidedly. “Question is, which one?”

“Little Mermaid was always his favourite,” Tim answered, staring wistfully off into the distance. “He used to sing Under the Sea in the shower.”

Jason grimaced. “Badly, I’ll bet.”

Tim laughed. “The absolute worst.”

“We were on patrol once and Catwoman dropped in.” Damian added. “She was talking to Father when Grayson started singing Kiss the Girl.”

“Who knew the Batman could blush?” Tim chuckled. “B benched him for a week afterwards. Silena loved it.”

“He’d come round.” Jason said. “Just barge in through the front door and announce we were watching it. I didn’t even give him a key,”

“He just picked the lock.” Tim finished with a rueful grin.

Jason groaned. “You too?”

Tim nodded. “When I left the Mansion he’d drop by, check how I was doing. I didn’t ask him to, heck, I didn’t want him to. Bruce and I were on a rocky patch. I didn’t want B sending his first kid to spy on me. We’d argue, but somehow we always ended up in front of the tv – “

“Eating bad pizza till 3am.” It was Jason’s turn to finish. “Yeah he pulled that move on me too.”

“I refuse to believe there is such thing as bad pizza.” Damian intoned dryly.

Jason pulled a face. “Then you’ve never tasted 2am takeout Pepperoni Passion.”

A hush fell over the room, each fondly reminiscing the times that Dick hadn’t taken no for an answer, barging into their lives and making them so much better for it.

“We really don’t deserve him, do we?” Tim asked softly, breaking the silence that had settled over the trio.

“Nope.” Jason chirped, popping the p along with the tab for the can of beer clutched in his hand. He dropped onto the couch and took a greedy swig. Mmm. He smacked his lips. Now that was good liver poisoning. “No one does, but luckily for us, we got him.”

“Had him.” Damian reminded quietly. The air dropped twenty degrees as the three of them sobered.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get the old Dick back.” Tim smiled as he pulled a battered DVD from off the shelf.

“Believe in the power of Disney.” Jason grinned, locking eyes with Tim.

“Disney is magic.” Tim intoned seriously, eyes glazed over and zoned out like he’d just been zapped with a hypno-ray.

“Oh my God,” Jason cackled, clutching his sides and kicking his legs back and forth as he tried to hold in his laughter. “Bruce’s conspiracy theory was right! Disney really are an evil cult trying to take over the world!”

Damian wrinkled his nose. “I fail to see how an overrated and childish cartoon  _singalong_  session is going to retrieve Grayson to his senses.”

Jason almost fell off the couch from laughing as Tim, still zombiefied, stuck his arms out in front of him and with slow, jerky movements started to advance on Damian, all while chanting “Non-believer, kill the non-believer” in his robotic tone.

…

“It’s called a onesie,” Jason smiled at Dick’s blank look. “Legs go in there, arms through here.” He explained, pushing an arm slowly through the gap. It was just him and Dick in the room now – he’d kicked Damian and Tim out the door earlier. He’d guess that for research purposes Tim had already seen most of the scars but he didn’t want either of the Robins to see the extent of Dick’s injuries, especially not on a night that was supposed to lift everyone’s spirits.

He hadn’t questioned why when Tim pointed to the bundle lain out on the bed. “Love from Silena”, Tim had explained before leaving. Jason had nodded, he’d always known the cat thief had a soft spot for Goldie, and he wouldn’t complain; Dick stuffed into a Nightwing-tight fuzzy suit with cat ears and matching tail was one of the most adorable things he’d ever seen. He’d already snapped more than a couple of photos on his phone – some for the rapidly growing collection of blackmail and others because he’d already had his old lock screen for far too long.

“C’mon.” He grinned as he finished threading the last of the buttons and dropped his hand to Dick’s, taking it loosely and pulling him out of the room. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“Surprise?” Dick twitched. He squirmed, looking uncomfortable but still allowing Jason to lead him down the maze of hallways to the sitting room.

“Yeah Birdy Boy, surprise.”

Maybe he imagined it but he swore he saw a smile cross the ex-Talon’s face when Tim and Damian leapt out from their hiding places behind their couch. Dick quivered on the spot, looking like he was torn between starting to cry or running from the room.

“For me?” he croaked doubtfully, the words laboured, like he was ripping each off his tongue. His eyes darted round the room, looking for exits and when he asked he flinched, like he was expecting punishment just for questioning whether he was allowed something.

“Well it certainly isn’t for Bruce.” Jason joked, somehow keeping the anger out of his voice as he dragged Dick further into the room before he could bolt away.

“I don’t deserve this.” Dick trembled, his nails suddenly scrabbling at Jason’s hand, feet already starting to edge back towards the door.

Jason sighed. Of course the martyr couldn’t just accept that he could have good things in his life. If anyone deserved a break it was Dick. Not that he'd ever think that. That would mean having at least one family member who wasn't buried under six feet of self-loathing and PTSD issues. “God you’re gonna be such a git and make us say it, aren’t you, ass.”

“Say it?” Dick stammered in a panicked voice, his nails now digging into Jason’s skin deep enough to draw blood. “Say what?”

The tips of Jason’s ears seared red along with the rest of his face. He sighed. He really was going to make him say it. The ass. “We love you Dick.”

Tim smiled as he shuffled over painstakingly slow, a skinny arm curling around Dick’s shoulders. “You’re the best thing in our lives.”

“And we’re going to help you get through this.” Damian promised, making his way over and adding his own arm around Dick’s hips.

“Oh Dami, Timmy,  _Jay_.”

Dick bleated and Jason chuckled, deep and throaty with emotion as he dropped Dick’s hand to envelop the trio.

“Quit crying, we haven’t even gotten to Kiss the Girl yet idiot.” Jason scolded, though his tone was light. 

Dick laughed, and it was the old Dick’s laugh; bright and bubbly and soothing, like a hundred get better kisses over ouchies. Before long Dick was nearly doubled over and wiping tears from his eyes,  still laughing even though the joke hadn't even been that funny. Tim and Damian were melded into Dick's front, joining in with their own giggles after a beat. Jason was completely silent, arms still tight around his family, his eyes closed at total peace as he bathed in the sound. The same sound he'd fallen in love with.  

…

“We can’t all sit next to Dick.” Damian growled, one hand yanking Dick’s arm towards his seat just as Tim’s pulled him over to his.

“Well I called dibs an hour ago,” Tim declared sullenly.

“Don’t be immature Drake. Dibs isn’t a real thing, everyone knows that.”

“Is too! How dare you sully the name of the sacred contract!”

Jason sighed, remembering now why he’d made sure to always ‘be busy’ whenever Dick had asked him over.

“Jason, dibs is real isn’t it?” Tim questioned, looking to him for support. And hell no was he getting embroiled in spat number 2632 between Brat and Brattier so he looked anywhere but at Tim, pointedly gazing towards the couch.

“You cannot be serious.” Damian grouched, following his stare.

Tim blinked. “There’s no way all four of us are fitting on that.”

Jason grinned. “Tetris champ of ’16. At your service.”

…

“Budge over.” Jason grunted, five seconds after he’d already shoved Tim across the couch.

Tim’s toes none too gently nudged Damian’s to the left. “Quit hogging all the foot space Demon.”

“Todd, you have ten seconds to move your elbow out of my face or it will be removed for you.”

“It’s not in your face.” Jason muttered as he pressed his elbow even further into Damian’s nose.

Damian glared at Jason, an eyebrow snaking up as the man stuffed another handful of popcorn past his lips. “Todd could you chew any louder? I don’t think 0.62% of the world’s populace can hear you.”

“Did you just kick me?!” Tim screeched, incensed.

“Shutup,” Jason mumbled from around a bite of cookie. “I’m missing the good part.”

Tim gazed mournfully at the empty bowl in his lap. “We’re out of popcorn.”

“You only have yourself to blame Drake.  _I_  can control my bodily urges.” Damian sniffed.

Tim blushed, embarrassed before his expression hardened. “Yeah right brat. We all saw you inhale those three plates of cookies. Besides, Jason had like six bags of the salted.”

“You little shit! You had like seven-“

“Is there a problem, young sirs?”

Jason looked up to find the Alfred in the doorway frowning slightly. He coloured, the hand that had been about to cuff the back of Tim’s head slowly lowering. “Problem? No problems here Alfie.”

“Yeah,” Tim echoed, smiling sheepishly as he placed the remote he’d been about to throw at Damian down on the couch wing. “Total problem-free zone.”

“Drake ate all the popcorn.” Damian, the little shit, spat, hissing when Jason elbowed him in the ribs.

Alfred smiled faintly. “Did he now? Well I’m sure it’ll be more than a simple matter to find some more.”

Jason’s face broke out into a grin. “Anyone ever tell you you’re the best, Alf?”

“Thanks Alf! Love you!” Tim shouted, waiting until he was sure the butler was out of hearing distance before reaching for the remote.

…

Jason took a steady breath, allowing himself a smile as the credits for the latest film rolled. He and Dick had watched them all before – back at the hotel when Jason was only just coming to terms with the psychotic killer after his skin being his AWOL brother. And even though that moment was special slash amazing, easily one of the best in his life, looking back it couldn’t help but feel a little lonely, little empty, like it’s missing something. Or two somethings, kind of like the two things snoring softly on his shoulder and with their legs shoved over his lap. With no one yelling insults and death threats being together like this actually felt kind of…nice.

Of course the peace doesn’t last. Damian wakes up to Tim’s foot in his mouth and Tim wakes to drool all over his favourite pair of socks and Jason has to play peacekeeper, though all it takes is a screech from Dick (who somehow slept through the entire thing, the bastard) and Damian’s hand is off of Tim’s throat and curling reassuringly round his big brother’s chest, just like how Tim very quickly forgets that only five seconds before he’d been wrestling Damian on the floor and shoots over to the other side of Dick, offering his own warmth to the shivering body mass. Jason gives a – manly – yelp as one of Dick’s hands shoots out and drags him into the cuddle. The grip is iron tight and Jason, knowing he’s not getting out of it any time soon, gives in and reluctantly allows himself to be arranged in Dick’s lap.

“Why don’t we watch another movie?” He suggests weakly, trying to ignore the murderous aura emanating off Damian as Dick pulls him even further into his chest.

Which was how they ended up watching Aladdin at 4am, complete with Jason and Dick’s own re-enactment of  _A Whole New World,_ with automatic fan wielding Damian on wind duty and Special Effects. How the fuck he got pulled into these situations, he didn’t even know. Actually he did. It began with D and had the widest set of puppy eyes Jason had ever seen. Forget Joker, Dick was the scariest villain Jason had ever met. He was entirely sure the guy could take over the world if he wanted to. All he had to do was open those big round dinnerplates and beg the world leaders to pretty please let him have it. And the next day the whole planet would be chowing down on sugar-packed cereal as children swung from chandeliers (which as law now stated was a perfectly normal activity for seven year olds).

He drew the line at being Jasmine so he got half a glass of water dunked over his head ‘for affect’ (though he’s sure Damian was just using that as an excuse to get revenge for Jason stealing all the cuddles) while Dick got a pretty paper tiara handmade by Tim who he’s pretty sure videoed the entire thing. Even after Jason threatened the kid’s entire coffee supply not to. Yeah he definitely saw a phone come out at some point, which means little Timmy is gonna be drinking nothing but Decaf for a month.

“Jason.” Dick rumbles a laugh, writhing on the carpet and squealing like a baby because Jason just found out even after all the Court’s fuckery the man’s still ticklish and yeah like he’s just going to let that go.

“Jason quit iiiiiiit.” Dick whines, as Jason divebombs him (repayment for the first time Dick took him train riding. You think being blindfolded and kidnapped from your bed is bad? Try being blindfolded and kidnapped from your bed to get stood on the top of a train. Still blindfolded and with nothing but a wire line preventing your body from going a very painful  _splat_ ).

He feels a disturbance in the force and freezes. Years of intensive training tell him there’s a presence behind him, a prickle running up his spine but before he can think  _oh no_  all the air is getting knocked from his lungs and bloody Damian is sitting on top of him like Jason’s his goddam horse. He’s half expecting the boy to sneer giddyup and kick his heels into his sides.

A guffaw comes from his left and to his horror he looks up to stare right into the red little blinking light that tells him Tim’s phone is recording.

“Stop the video now Replacement,” He seethes, voice low and dangerous. “And I might just let you live.”

Tim’s hand covers his mouth. “Oh this is so getting posted. Kori and Wally are going to  _die_.”

Then he turns his back and holds the phone, now in selfie mode, at arm’s length, and Jason balks for a whole new reason.

“No.” Jason growls in his best Batman voice. “Don’t even think about it.” His mouth curls up in Damian’s sneer. He even tries to channel Dick’s puppy eyes. And fails miserably. Red Hood doesn't do 'cute.' The last guy who found him adorable found themselves staring into the barrel of a Remmington five seconds later.

“Timmy no!” He pleads, squirming in a last ditch attempt to buck Damian off.

“Timmy yes!” The boy shouts exuberantly. He punches the air with one fist and with a whoop, turns round, takes a running start and throws himself onto the pile.

“Oh my god.” Jason gags as all the oxygen is sucker-punched out of his system for a second time. “The fuck have you been eating Tim? An elephant?!”

Tim gives an indignant humph. Jason doesn’t care what Tim says, the boy needs to go on a serious diet. He’s used to going off the facts and the facts are that he currently can’t breathe from the 100 pound anvil squashing into the small of his back.  

“Remove your backside from my face immediately.” Damian hisses in a growl so heated in could give the fires of Hell a run for their money.

“Would if I could.” Jason half snarls, half wheezes as he wriggles, trying to get free. Somewhere below him Dick’s still giggling.

He coughs, spluttering as suddenly there’s a foot in his shoulder blades, followed by a yelled “Sorry!” from Tim.

“Oh you’re so dead.” Jason growls under his breath, one hand clawing blindly around for the teen’s throat.

Tim yelps and suddenly the foot in Jason's back is magically gone.

“Say hi to the stream.” Tim skirts the issue of his impending murder and chooses to announce pleasantly instead.

“Hi to the stream!” Dick shouts happily from underneath them all.

There’s a horrendous silence as the penny drops.

Damian makes a choking sound in the back of his throat. Jason's almost kind of worried for the kid until he remembers demons don't need air to breathe.

“Tim.” Jason says in a strangled voice. “Tim, is this thing  _live_?”

In hindsight, maybe Tim shouldn’t have filmed the whole thing. Live. Because suddenly there’s a whole lot of superheroes in chat, all wanting to know why the fuck thought to be dead Dick Grayson is under a Robin pile in Bruce Wayne’s sitting room, not so missing and very much still alive.

As Tim puts it to Bruce when Batman corners him in the library later after just having got off a two hour phone call with a furious Oliver Queen;

“Eheh, oops?”

 


	34. Robins Revolt

Tim slunk into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and screamed. He threw open the others, desperately hoping there was a mistake. He ransacked each shelf, throwing out other tins over his shoulder just to be sure but his coffee really was gone, and worse; replaced with jars of Decaf.

“The humanity,” he moaned, throwing a hand over his face as he swooned dramatically into a chair. He looked up, unsurprised to find the grown man perched on the light fixtures. Dick had always found comfort in high places and going on the broom now a permanent fixture in the hallway it seemed like nothing – not even months of straight torture and reconditioning – would stop his brother from climbing Alfred’s precious chandeliers.

He smiled. “Hey Dick, have you seen Jason today?”

“Yup.” Dick nodded, popping the p between his lips. His voice had lost its robotic tone over the last couple of days, though any of its emotions were pale imitations of the real things and it was sad how unsure it still sounded. They had to be careful with their wording too, something they’d found out when Damian lost his temper and yelled at “Grayson to go away.” They hadn’t seen Dick for the entire day, and when they’d found him it had been with _Slade_. For once Tim was in agreement with his brothers, the guy gave him the creeps. Not the usual crazy Gotham cuckoo creeps but the I’ll use your brother as my murder minion creeps. He’d heard the stories enough times from Dick (that Slade was an asshole when he was younger and an asshole but sometimes a useful one when he was older) but he’d never been sure of what Slade had wanted from the former Titans leader; an apprentice or a lover.

“He came into the kitchen, cleared out one of the cupboards then went into the garden with this massive box of stuff. Said something about a big boom– hey where are you going?” Dick called, but Tim was already long gone, jumping out of his seat and dashing out the door with a strangled nooooo.

…

“In my defence,” Jason started innocently, an angelic smile painted on his face, though the effect was ruined somewhat by the wisps of smoke curling off his charred hair, sooty skin and singed jacket. “I didn’t know coffee beans were that flammable.”

Alfred wordlessly lifted an eyebrow.

“Okay, so maybe I did know,” Jason relented, wilting under the piercing stare. “I’ll go, uh, clear that up now then.”

“Yes Master Jason, I think that would be for the best.” Alfred clipped out. Hands lowered from his hips, the butler strode briskly off in the direction of the kitchen.

…

Jason walks into the sitting room and Kid Flash is in the middle of the floor giving Dick a makeover. Okay. What the fuck.

“I’m sorry Wally, I could not find the polish of nails anywhere.”

And of course, sure, Kori’s here. Why wouldn’t Kori be here, also in his sitting room. Giving Dick a makeover. Again, what the fuck. It's not that he's unhappy to see the girl, because he's really not, Kori here means one more set of eyes on Slade - only these ones can fire green lasers and melt a person's middle. It also means that Bruce is gonna be seriously pissed because he's made it pretty clear Gotham is his city.

Wally’s frown of concentration breaks into a grin. “That’s okay Star, I already found em.” Then he goes back to smearing Dick’s cheeks in bright pink blush.

Jason doesn’t think. He doesn’t need to. He just opens his mouth and shouts “TIM!” at the top of his voice.

He doesn’t have to wait long. There’s the scamper of footsteps racing down the hall and a few moments later Tim pokes his head shyly around the doorframe. “Heya Jason, you ranted?”

Jason grits his teeth. “Them. Here. Explain. Now.”

“O-o-oh.” Tim’s voice wobbles as he guiltily steps into the room. “We~ll we all agreed Bruce was being stupid not calling anyone in so I invited them.”

Jason eyes the doorway behind him suspiciously, half-expecting a walking toaster and gangly limbed green teenager to burst through bearing great gifts of pizza.

He frowns. “You went against Batman’s orders?”

“Well, yeah…” Tim trails, sending the two vigilantes a desperate SOS look but the two don’t care – Kori just found the box of eyeshadows and both of them are poured over the selection, clucking their tongues and lifting each shade to Dick’s face like the hero's life depends on them getting the right shade of fuchsia.

“You, Timothy Drake, went against Batman’s direct orders?” Jason says disbelievingly.

Tim nods shyly, his fingers twisting over each other nervously. “Uh-huh.”

Jason turned to the group in the middle who were currently curling Dick’s eyebrows. Because sure, that was a thing. “KF we have a situation. This isn’t my real brother.” He declared as Dick’s head swung up to meet his gaze. Jason’s heart tried not to skip a beat as Dick smiled and gave a cheery wave. And no he definitely didn’t blush and wave back.

Kori looked worried. “This is not the real Tim Drake?” She asked, floating over to pull Tim into the room. She circled him, one hand snapping out and lifting one of his arms above his head before dropping it back down. She peered closer, rifling through Tim’s hair as if looking to find a hidden antenna. Tim let her play with his limbs, bending them back and forth like he was some kind of Ken doll. He didn’t even look that fazed.

“I am, how you say confused.” The Tamaranian muttered as she crouched and pulled one of Tim’s trouser legs up, peering at the skin as if expecting to find some barcode stamped into the flesh. “This looks like the real Timothy Drake, but it is not?”

“It’s a joke Kor,” KF shouted. Dick giggled beside him, one hand tugging softly on Wally’s sleeve. “Yes I know Mr Centre of Attention, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you. Now which colour do you want, red or blue?”

Jason could only watch, completely floored as Dick shyly pointed to one of two vials and Wally painted his nails blue. Not just any blue. _Nightwing_ blue. With the insignia and everything.

He shot Wally a dude wtf look the next time their eyes meet. The speedster shakes his head.

“I grew up with a sister. Don’t ask.” He grimaces. Jason takes his advice and doesn’t.

“Oh my god.” He groans instead, flopping down on the couch with his head in his hands. “What the hell is happening right now?”

 _Don’t ask_ Tim mouths back, slumping into the chair opposite with a grin.

“We are giving Dick the makeover.” Kori answered, smiling. She left Tim, gliding over to join Wally beside Dick. Now that Jason looked closer, he could see a tube of lipstick clutched in the alien’s left hand. He’d seen Nightwing wear make-up before – the couple of times when Bruce needed an ear in a strip joint or nightclub. A female ear. Unfortunately it happened more often than you’d think. They’d all had the uncomfortable time when Bruce had held up a sparkly pink dress and stared straight at them with that one hundred percent serious Bat stare. Even Damian. Not that the dress had been recognisable afterward. That boy had been _vicious_. Not that Jason could say anything – his own fashion disaster had somehow ended up in the teeth of the lawnmower. Oops.  Accidents and all that.

He’s seen Dick in makeup before. He’s even been the one to put it on for him for the last month. But he’d been trying to make Dick look human. Wally and Kori were deliberately going out of their way to make him _sexy_. It shouldn’t be possible that Dick manages to pull off puppy eyes and still look like Eros incarnate (and honestly he knows there’s an actual god of war out there so it’s not that big a leap to believe that Dick Grayson is the literal God of Hot). Either Kori or Wally – now that he thinks about it definitely Wally -  had drowned Dick’s lips in harlot red, his eyes were contactless; the amber irises staring out from smoky black frames with gold dusted around their edges and they’d used the lack of tan to further highlight Dick’s already impressive bone structure. The cheekbones that could chisel stone could now cut diamonds.

They’d curled his hair – and dyed it back to the original black, Jason could still smell the reek of ammonia. Someone had also managed to drag the man out of his ratty tees and into a midriff crop that was so closefitting it should be illegal.  For the benefit of the entire Cape community of course. He wasn’t with the Justice League Juniors for long but he still knows that both Zatanna and Artemis will be updating their screensavers at this very moment.

Dick’s hand paws at Kori’s knee and he stares expectantly at the girl, the same kind of nervous expression in his eyes they’ve come to understand means that Dick wants something, but is too afraid to ask.

Kori grins in understanding. “Oh, you are wanting to give one to me?”

Dick nods shyly.

“Well of course friend!” Kori smiles enthusiastically. Maybe Jason should have warned her that mascara wands in Dick Grayson’s hands are just as lethal, if not more so, than escrima sticks. But he still has to get Kori back for that time when she and Roy filled his helmet with shaving cream and didn’t tell him. So not telling her about Dick’s weaponisation of eye liner is totally fair game.

Wally is the next to fall victim to the Cosmeticpocalypse.

“It’s great dude, uh, really.” KF manages a smile but with the all the blush it just made him look even more like the crazed serial killer he would normally be chasing after. The boy is practically vibrating on the spot in his desperation to escape before someone can catch any evidence of the moment – the phones had mysteriously disappeared as soon as Dick’s fingers messily scrawled puke yellow over and around everything but Kori’s eyelids.

And then, to his horror, Dick gives a happy hum and turns and looks expectantly at him.

“No!” Jason stammers, getting up and beginning to back away. He nearly falls over his own feet in his hurry to reach the door. “Red Hood doesn’t do makeovers-“

Dick's face falls and Jason's stomach plummets with it. Because Dick is looking at him like he just turned round and said Titus died. And he knows he's fucked.

He lasts all of five seconds. Then Dick turns on the waterworks and Jason is putty in his hands.

“You laugh you die.” He growled as he shouldered past Damian in the hallway. The boy didn’t gave a response, but a stray snicker slipped through his lips and Jason had to wonder exactly how long it would take before all his enemies got an anonymous email of a dolled up Red Hood in smeared hot pink lipstick and thick clumsily drawn eyeliner.

…

“All this time I thought it was the brat, but you’re the real diabolical evil mastermind in this family, aren’t ya?”

Tim smiled sweetly. “Hey Jay pass the sauce please.” He asked again, the devilish gleam in his eye never leaving.

This time Jason obliged, one paw sending the ketchup bottle sliding across the table like a hockey puck on ice.

“Thanks.” Tim’s smile turned feral as he lifted the lid and squirted his weapon of doom all over the poor innocent pizza slices.

“Oh my god. My brother is a monster.” Jason deadpanned, unable to look away from the plate in the same way that your brain doesn’t let you look away from a car crash. “Y’know I’m beginning to think that livestream was more than just a mistake-“

 _Viva la revolution_ Tim mouthed around a bloody tomato-ketchupfied pizza slice in return.

Jason chuckled. Ooooh yeah, eating combination atrocities aside, he knew he liked this kid for a reason.

…

“FUCKIN HELL DICK!” Jason screeched, mentally peeling himself off the ceiling. One hand clutched over his chest as he doubled over, ragged gasps retching out of his mouth as he tried to remember how to breathe.

“I’m a vampire.” Dick declared solemnly, though his voice was muffled by the two carrot sticks in his mouth, so what came out instead was “I’mvf a vumphire.”

Jason drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms and cocked a brow. “And you were in my closet why?”

Dick’s lashes batted up and down innocently. Which was bullshit because Jason wasn’t even sure he needed to blink. “Damian said I should surprise you.”

Oh Damian had had he?

“Surprise.”

Dick smiled so wide one carrot stick fell out of his mouth. Jason caught it and stuffed it back into place. He looped an arm round Dick as the man made to move – probably returning to Damian to report mission success.

“On no you don’t.” He steered him back against his closet. “You ain’t getting away that easy Dickie. Now, big smile for the camera.”

Jason paused as lightning struck.

“Okay, now repeat after me, bleh bleh bleh, I vant to suck your blawd.”

Dick blinked owlishly (again, the faker), then like a robot mechanically parroted “Bleh bleh bleh, I vant to suck your blawd.”

…and cut. Perfect.

“Okay, that’s everything.” He slapped Dick lightly on the shoulder. “You can go back to Damian now.”

Dick nodded like he didn’t quite understand, but turned dutifully on his heel and padded silently towards where Jason guessed Damian must’ve been waiting, probably hoping to hear all about how Red Hood jumped a mile at a simple jumpscare.

He grabbed the biker jacket he’d originally been looking for, flinging it on and making a point to go the opposite way Dick had been heading. He whistled as he went, one hand stuffed into his ripped jean pocket as the other set up his phone’s new wallpaper. He’d ended up taking a couple – who wouldn’t? Tim wasn’t the only one adding to the family photo album; Jason’s phone storage was already nearly three quarters filled with the ‘Amnesiac Adventures’ collection. He thumbed through the lot, grinning at his favourites. A glowering Damian complete with cow onesie smooshed against Dick on the couch as in the background Timmy the magical unicorn paraded two fingers on both sides of his head like bull horns. Dick curled up on Jason’s bed, eyes closed and mouth hung open in blissful ignorance as a string of drool oozed out. Dick’s expression glazed as he experienced true heaven after trying one (or eight. The man had somehow managed to stuff practically the entire plate into his mouth. Impressively or messily, all at the same time) of Alfred’s cookies for the first time. Another of Dick asleep – this time passed out in the back of the Rover they’d been renting at the time – which wasn’t creepy at all.

At all.

Unlike Tim, he wasn’t going to post them for all the Justice League to see. Jason was cruel, but he wasn’t that cruel. Besides, cruel was such a harsh word. He was more opportunistic. Advantageous. Like he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to forever mortify his siblings? Besides, he was sure being able to blackmail the other ex-assassin in the family would always come in handy.

…

“Care to explain why there was a Dick Grayson in my wardrobe last night, brat?” Jason asked casually. Damian froze mid-reach for the stack of buttered up toast piled in the centre of the table, his face turning a new shade of guilty red.

“Maybe he was looking for Narnia.” Tim wheezed, from his seat on top of the kitchen island, his thin body shaking with laughter as he tried to hold in his laughter. He instantly wilted as Jason shot him a dirty look, clapping a hand around his mouth to muffle his hysterics.

 “We were playing vampires and peasants. He needed a place to hide from the mob with pitchforks and torches.” His younger brother explained with an eye roll.

Jason sighed. Vampires and peasants. Because of course Batman’s kid couldn’t just play tag. That would actually be normal for a child.

“I suggested your wardrobe because it was satisfactory for this purpose. That was all.” Damian finished curtly.

“Uhuh.”

Jason could feel Damian’s eyes watching him like a hawk as he picked up a butter knife, dipping it slowly into the yellow slab and raising it to a slice, sliding it over one side in slow, menacing movements. He set the toast down but kept a hold of the knife.

“Because that’s not what he said.”

“…”

Damian stiffened. He fell quiet, his eyes darting to the nearest exit before the rest of his body quickly followed suit.

“Come back here brat!” Jason screamed, lunging across the table, the blade barely missing the bottom of Damian’s hoody.

 “I am the night itself!” Damian shouted as he ran. He darted through the open door, barely slowly before skidding a left, his maniacal laughter echoing through the halls. “You will never catch me!”

“We live in the same mansion asshole! You can run but you gotta pee at some point!” Jason yelled, shaking a fist after the fleeing figure. He glared sourly at the doorway, letting his breath even back to normal before he dropped back down in his seat.

Tim found a sudden newfound interest in the table, staring at it intently as he silently munched through a slice of toast.

“…a vampire huh?” he piped up, dusting his hands of crumbs.

Jason grinned. He slid his phone from his trousers’ back pocket and held it up in the air. “Yeah, wanna see the pictures before I booby trap the hell out of every bathroom this place has?” 

…

Tim groaned. It wasn’t Joker or Riddler or any of Gotham’s other crazies who finally defeated the Batfamily. It was Monopoly.

“It’s very clearly a seven.” Damian growled. “One, two, three, four, five, six, **seven**.” He slammed the silver top hat down on the board. He folded his arms. “You owe me fifty five thousand dollars.”

Jason glared. “You don’t count the square that you’re on idiot. I don’t owe you anything more than fifty dollars.”

“Well I’ll just build hotels on that one then. Now you owe me sixty thousand.”

“You can’t build hotels on stations. That’s cheating. Tim, tell the brat to stop cheating.”

Tim stayed silent, shooting an envious stare at Slade who was curled up in an armchair in the corner, lips curled in the man’s only definition of smile as he watched the scene from over the book Tim didn’t believe for one second he was actually reading. As much as he hated having the man in the room he hated the idea of leaving Slade alone and unsupervised to his own devices in the Manor, so he’d grudgingly invited the villain along.

“They’re not hotels, they’re…trespassing fees. You entered private property and must be fined.” Damian finished smugly.

“Tiiiiiim, tell Damian there’s no such thing as trespassing fees in Monopoly.” Jason whined childishly.

Tim took a deep breath. “Damian, there’s no trespassing fees in Monopoly, Jason, you landed on Reading Railroad, pay Damian fifty dollars. Dick roll the dice, it’s your turn.”

He wondered exactly how many murders had been committed over a Monopoly board. Probably a lot. Or maybe their family would be the first. Maybe it wasn’t Joker or Dent or Penguin that finally pushed them over the line. Maybe it was having to give ten dollars to Damian’s not birthday. And okay no joke Jason’s hand was sliding down to his trouser leg. Where his guns were kept. Tim had time to question whether his older brother really would shoot his younger brother over monopoly (answer, yes of course he would, this was _Jason_ ) when the answer (even though he’d already thought of it) was decided, in the worst manner, for him.

There was no bang (why was there no bang?) but suddenly a howling Damian was clutching his shoulder (flesh wound, nothing serious, easy to remove with no lasting damage, that’s good, it means he can get Damian down to the Cave and pick the bullet out and replace the Days Jason Hasn't Tried to Kill One of Us counter back to zero before Bruce gets back) and directing a look of pure venom towards Jason – who Tim was definitely not going to kill because everything was just starting to get better between them and Dick would never forgive him (mostly because Dick would never forgive him) – was staring at his hands in confusion.

“Who the fuck replaced my babies with Nerf guns!?”

And oh. That was why there was no bang. Jason wasn’t holding his usual instrument of fiery death he was holding the Nerf gun that Dick had bought Damian for Christmas. (A stupid idea, the extremities of which the family found out when the next three weeks involved barricaded bedroom doors, glances over shoulders and tiptoeing round the mansion with dread praying to every deity they didn’t find themselves face to barrel on the next corner)

“You shot me!” Damian screeched, still holding his shoulder.

“Not where it matters!” Jason yelled defensively.

“You shot me! You were going to shoot me with an actual bullet!” Damian screamed indignantly.

“Getting shot builds character!” Jason who he couldn’t kill. Dick would never forgive him screamed right back.

With a strangled cry Damian hurled himself at Jason and the two of them went tumbling onto the floor, disappearing into a dust cloud with the occasional flash of leg and fist cartoon style as they fought; kicking and screaming and pulling at each other’s hair.

The poor monopoly board, tired of dealing with the two toddlers’ shit, threw in the towel. Well, more accurately Damian’s foot threw the towel in for it; one stray kick sending the board and all its pieces flying across the room.

Dick was watching the whole thing with a confused little frown on his face, head swinging from Jason to Damian to Jason back to Damian as if he couldn’t decide who he wanted to win, which was a whole lot better than the ex-Talon jumping in and deciding for them.

Slade caught his gaze, totally abandoning the pretence of reading to watch the fight with a scary level of intensity, his one eye following each thrown punch and kick with the same interest as a boxer watching his next opponent’s past matches.

Tim, the true victim in all of this, cursed the name of whoever had decided the game to be ‘family friendly’.

…

“Monopoly again tonight?” Jason asked as he entered the kitchen.

“Sadly no. The board’s disappeared.” Tim answered without looking up from his book.

“That’s unfortunate.” Jason edged over to the counter and rifled through the cupboards. He grunted, a victorious grin on his face as he popped the tab of his conquest. “Shame, the game was a lot more fun than I thought.”

“Mmm. Shame.” Tim echoed quietly.

Jason looked at his brother over the top of his beer can. “Think we’ll ever find it?”

“I dunno.” Tim murmured innocently, thumbing the page over. “I looked but finding it could be hard.”

Especially now that Alfred had taken the mansion’s trash out.

…

“I made cookies today.” Dick whispered as Jason’s fingers soothed the tangles out of his hair.

“Oh really?” Jason grinned, pulling the covers up closer around them as Dick shivered. “I’m surprised Alf let you into the kitchen. The last time you cooked you did set the oven on fire.”

“On smoke.” Dick corrected with a harrumph. “There weren’t any actual flames.”

Jason’s grin widened. “That’s not what Tim tells me. I heard they were a mile high and still growing when the fire brigade came-HEY!”

He yelped as Dick’s hand shoved him roughly out of the bed. “Oh my god you absolute _dick_.” He laughed, picking himself off the floor and rubbing his rump before crawling back into the covers.

“That is my name.” Dick murmured innocently, humming to himself as he dragged Jason closer.

Jason jabbed a finger into Dick’s bare chest. “You’re an ass, you know that right?”

“Mmm, you love me really.” Dick mumbled in half sleep deprivation, making a sound in the back of his throat – was that an actual fucking purr? – as he snuggled further into Jason’s side.

Jason froze but he didn’t have to worry about what Dick thought of his response. Or lack thereof. The idiot was already asleep, mouth open inelegantly as dream drool made a bid for freedom onto Jason’s just washed pillows. Soft snores were already rumbling past his lips. He'd always been jealous of the way Dick could just turn off, passing out like at the flip of a switch and staying passed out even through the usual Damian vs Tim death matches. He swears Dick would sleep through a missile strike and still stumble out of what remained of his bed the next morning to beg Alfred to make pancakes.

He sighed. “Yeah you ass. I do.” He muttered under his breath, one hand carefully sliding stray hair from Dick’s eyes. He growled, trying not to think how right this felt, that their bodies didn’t fit into the other’s so perfectly like a goddam jigsaw puzzle – and that he wasn’t pretending Dick was pressed against him, in only boxers, in his bed for a reason that wasn’t just to escape night terrors.


	35. Chapter 35

Talon was confused. At some point the voice at the back of his mind had suddenly become the thing at its front. Richard was louder and sunnier and so much more _alive_ , dashing down corridors like hellfire on his heels at the slightest sound of Jason’s voice when Talon would have walked, slowly and with an actual shred of dignity. Richard laughed when Talon would have stayed silent, smiled when Talon would remain straight-faced, rushed into rooms and manhandled his brothers into hugs when Talon’s arms would have stayed pinned to his sides. Richard felt warmth – not the kind manufactured by Alfred’s specially knit sweaters but actual warmth, the kind on the inside, when Talon would have remained empty and cold.

At some point Talon and Richard had stopped being two and started to merge into one. Just Dick. And Dick was happy. Scarred for life, definitely, and probably in need of at least two lifetimes’ of therapy. But happy as well. His family were actually acting like they had some iota of respect, dare he even say love? For each other. He hadn’t been Ordered to do anything in over a month and so far no one had even talked about taking him to Arkham. At the moment the worst he had to deal with was Slade walking in on him mid-shower. He doesn’t give a damn what the ass says he knows he locked that door. But as Jason pointed out, was Slade really the type of creep who carried lockpicks on their person in the hopes of getting a peak at a naked Nightwing? (Jason had thought about that for all of five seconds before storming off, snarling every curse he knew at the sunnuvabitch, Glock already loaded and ready as he headed in the direction Slade had last been seen, an eavesdropping out for blood Damian with katana drawn following closely on his heels). Dick would never say it out loud – he’s pretty sure they both would murder him if he did – but he thought his family’s readiness to gruesomely mutilate others to defend his chastity was kind of sweet. Damian especially had drawn the biggest aaaw when he threatened to castrate Slade if he ever happened to ‘just wander in’ to the bathroom ever again. Tim’s threat was the most creative though – something no one, except maybe Jason, had seen coming. Dick didn’t know exactly where his younger brother had picked up the idea - or the know how - to rip Slade’s intestines out and use them as a feather boa, but he’d definitely be keeping a closer eye on the boy from now on.

Dick was happy. In the day. The night was an entirely different story. Because while Talon had gained the ability to smile and laugh and remembered he could say no, Richard had remembered the days of torture, punishments and beatings he’d endured, the hours spent screaming till his voice was hoarse for Bruce or Jason or Tim or Damian to save him. The lives he’d ruined. The weight of the blades in his hands. The feel of the spray of blood exiting a throat against his cheek.

By day he laughed and played, snakes and ladders with Tim, read books in the library with Damian, got roped into prank wars with Jason. Baked muffins and cakes with Alfie in the kitchen. He even spent twenty five reluctant minutes smiling plastic grins every day in the sitting room as Slade lectured him and the rest of his brothers in the rules and strategies of chess.  Which was surprisingly the activity the elder picked to 'get to know him again'. Tim's hellbent on the idea that Slade was using hidden messages to secretly brainwash him under the old man's control but Dick was more sure that the villain just enjoyed thrashing his every attempt at a check. That didn't stop him from agreeing to have the Robins sit in on each session, possible ulterior motives aside it was super cute to see them actually bonding.

At night he was a broken mess of a human being screaming in the holds of Jason’s arms.

_The window gave easily. Unlocked. The owner had been stupid. All the fancy security, cameras, patrolling guards looping a stretch of driveway a mile long. Dogs that had lifted their heads and sniffed as it stole past. And they’d left the windows unlocked. Talon slid through easily, more importantly unseen. The slight clink of blades against his hips the only sound he made as he dropped down onto the carpet. Its head looked left, eyes, even in the dark, reading each door’s label perfectly. Study. Sophie’s room. Bathroom. Mama’s and Papa’s room._

_That sign was different. Instead of embossed on gold plaque the letters were childishly scrawled in crayon on a sheet of A4, together with two stick figures and a collection of crude stars. Talon’s head buzzed. A slight twitch of something pulling at its mind, but it shrugged the sensation off, padding silently towards the strange sign._

_It felt a strange urge to put its fingers to the paper, run the digits over the smiling faces, but it didn’t, simply eying the sign curiously before pushing the door open and stepping inside, closing the frame softly behind itself._

_It drew the blades from their sheathes, walking towards the bed, still totally silent. It didn’t react when the screams began. It had grown used to the sounds; not many were eager to find a Talon in their private bedroom at 4.35 in the morning.  Maybe once it had reacted; maybe once it too had screamed and tried to run. But it didn’t now. It faced the woman who had scrambled herself against the headboard, its face impassive, eyes cold and throat raw with misuse._

_“Andria Palmer the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”_

_Talon did not flinch when she punched it. Its head snapped back, the bones in its nose already starting to knit back into place._ Always the nose! Why do they always go for the nose? _Some silly voice in its head huffed in annoyance. Talon shut it out. Focus on the mission. The mission was all that mattered._

_Talon did not flinch when the man who had stumbled out of the ensuite connecting to Andria Palmer’s bedroom drove the knife through its shoulder blade. It simply put a hand around the handle and yanked the knife out. The man had barely five seconds to register his shock before the same knife was on the floor a metre away and Talon’s personal blades were buried rib-deep in his stomach._

_“Ray Palmer the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”_

_Talon spoke robotically as it pushed the knives in further, deeper into the male’s insides until blood was pumping out of his mouth, like a running faucet of death, bleeding onto the carpet and onto Talon’s uniform._

_Talon let the corpse fall, stooping and pulling its knives from out of the body with a sickening squelch. Its gaze swung to the woman who had rushed from her bed and was now scrabbling desperately at the door._

_It stood, stepping over the pale face of the male as it made its way towards her._

_“Perhaps we can talk about this? How much are they paying you? I’m very rich. Whatever it is, I’ll double it.” The female babbled, her face sheen white with terror as Talon kept walking closer._

_“Andria Palmer, the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” It repeated robotically, just a machine completing its purpose. Just as machine, just a weapon, just a loaded gun in somebody else’s hands. Just a tool, that was all it was as the female’s throat gaped and blood sprayed, catching the corner of Talon’s goggles._

_It dropped the limp body and made towards the balcony. It should have left. It had fulfilled its duty it should have gone, dropped from the balcony and disappeared back into the stories of small children. But there was a noise. The sound of a door creaking down the hall and the Court had been explicit. No evidence._

_It threw a longing look towards the balcony and turned away, making through the door and down the corridor._

_“Mama?”_

_Talon froze._

_It slowly turned, a sickness in its gut as it stared at the youngling who was peeking with sleep-hazed eyes from their door. The girl’s face was pushed out between two caramel tails held in place by twines of crimson ribbon. A thumb poked through pink lips that slowly parted, the child pausing its suckle to gaze dolefully up. “You’re not mama.”_

_“No,” Talon agreed softly. “I am not.”_

_A forehead pinched as the child frowned. “Who are you?”_

_Talon stiffened. “I am no one.”_

_“Silly Mister Bird,” the girl pouted. “Everyone has to be someone. Like me, I’m Sophie.” The girl puffed her chest proudly, shooting a hand out to shake. “This is how grownups greet each other,” She announced seriously. “I’m only eight but papa says I’m way bigger than most girls my age.”_

_Talon hesitantly took the child’s hand. She shook its own solemnly then let go, pulling her thumb back towards her lips._

_“Do you know where mama is?”_

_“Yes.” It spoke raggedly. The blades at its hips suddenly seemed a world heavier. “Come with me and we will find her.”_

_The girl’s eyes shone as she bounced excitedly, one pudgy arm grabbing for Talon’s, catching round its elbow to pull it back down the hall the way it had just come._

_“Okay Mister Bird! I like birds, Jenny next door has a big red one that sings happy birthday when you tell it to. I’ve always wanted one, though papa says I can’t have one as a pet, but I do like birds, very, very, much!” the girl happily prattled. “Do you like birds?”_

_Talon inclined its head jerkily. "Very much.”_

_The meeting was an oversight. Talon was not supposed to be seen. Not allowed to be spied by the living._

_“Why is mama so still?” the child whispered, staring straight ahead as the door creaked open._

_“She is sleeping.” Talon croaked._

_No evidence._

_“Can I wake her up?” The girl asked, dropping Talon's arm and crouching, pulling gently on the female's bloodied hand._

_Talon nodded. It felt sick. It knew what it had to do but it didn't want to do it. She was so small, couldn't have been much shorter than Da-_

_No evidence._

_“Sophie Palmer, the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” Talon declared hoarsely, noevidence the blades so heavy in his hands, noevidencenoevidence **noevidence** steadily descending on the girl’s back_

Dick wrenched awake. He shot up like a bullet, eyes frantically searching the room. he needed to know that he was safe. That he was gone. That he wasn’t still in the Palmer’s bedroom standing over their corpses. He gagged, rivers of sweat pouring off his brow as white knuckles threw the covers from his form.

Jason was on him in an instant, his worried face above Dick’s own as gentle hands took his trembling shoulders and the gruff but kind voice shushed him back into an iota of calm. His ears hurt. Someone was screaming. He realised slowly that his mouth was open. His screams. His ears still hurt, he knew he was screaming and yet he couldn’t stop.

His voice gave out, a hacking cough coming in place of a fractured howl. He was still shaking. Even pinned in Jason’s arms he was trembling like a nervous leaf.

“Easy idiot it’s okay. I’ve got you, I’m here.” Jason soothed, his eyes full of worry and Dick felt sick, he was going to throw up, because he didn’t deserve any of it.  

“I’ve killed. Jay, oh god I’ve killed.” Dick moaned, crying brokenly. “I killed them. I killed him. Then I killed her. I killed a little kid, she did nothing wrong and I killed her.” He choked, more tears streaking down his cheeks. “Jason I’m a murderer.” He weeped, hiccupping and sobbing into Jason’s chest, his head pressed into the space above Jason’s heart.  He swallowed thickly, tongue rubber in his mouth. “I killed a little girl.”

He howled again, his hands coming to his face, clawing out his hair, trying to cleave open his skull and rip out the memory – the sight of Sophie Palmer’s stricken face as her small, dying body thudded to the floor and he _just stepped over it and without looking back dropped from the balcony._

Dick knew something was wrong because Jason didn’t punch him when he threw up on his shoulder. He shuddered because he’d messed up again that was all he could do wasn’t it? Mess up. He waited for the fist, for the crunch of bone giving way and flames to blister as his gut screamed, but none of that came. His eyes inched open, risking a glance at Jason and his brother was just sat there, stiff as a board and a whole lot of hellfire in his eyes.

Dick shivered, moaning. Because he’d been right. Jason hated him now. And he had every right to. Dick was a murderer. He was worse than Red Hood. Red Hood had rules. He didn’t touch children. Dick had murdered kids in cold blood. He curled in on himself. Damian and Tim. They’d never forgive him. And Bruce would lock him up in Arkham and god he’d be right to. A murderer. He was a monster Slade had been right. His family would turn their backs on him, they’d never love him. Not after this. That was all he had left now. He laughed brokenly. Slade. Murderer and fellow murderer, criminals and killers. His family would never understand. In the Bats’ eyes he was just the same as Joker.

“I’m gonna fucking skin em.” Jason whispered in a voice that promised death. He was furious, Dick had never seen him so angry. Not even when he’d returned from the dead and found his killer still alive. “I’m gonna fucking skin em and hang their fucking heads on my wall to stare at every night before I go to sleep.”

Dick blinked. The fingers that had been yanking out his hair were stayed. Oh. He realised slowly. That was why.  Jason’s grip; his brother’s hands were holding his own steadily in place, stopping him from yanking out chunks of his skull.

“Dickiebird, look at me. _Look at me_.” Jason repeated but Dick couldn't. He couldn't look Jason in the eye, not now. Not ever again.

Dick quivered, shuddering as Jason inched his hands down, setting them in place in his lap, his own hands still gripping over them and stared at him.

“None of that was your fault. It wasn’t you. Please, tell me you know that.” Jason pleaded in an alien voice raw with emotion.

Dick stared at him uncomprehendingly. Jason wasn’t…mad at him? Jason didn’t…hate him?

“You don’t…hate me?” he whispered, giving a low keen as Jason’s hands tightened on his own.

“Hate you?” Jason stared at him stupidly. He couldn’t really think, could he? He resisted the urge to facepalm. Of course he would. The idiot. “Dumbass I don’t,” He stopped, taking a deep breath. “I could never hate you.”

Dick looked at him like he hadn’t believed a single word he’d just said.

“But I killed. I killed children. Jay. Kids.” Dick repeated, his voice climbing in distress. He whimpered and the sound broke Jason’s heart. Dick looked so scared, so hurt, and Jason wanted to tighten his hold around the man even more but he was already scared he was going to crack one of Dick’s ribs so he didn’t, making do with squeezing the fingers of the hand he was still holding instead.

“And that was them. All them.” Jason growled.  Because he was damned if he was going to let Dick feel guilty for something that he had been forced into. They’d broken him so much that he had no idea of what he was doing, it wasn't his fault and he needed to know that Dick knew that. He needed it like he needed air to breathe and water to drink. “The Dick I know would never-”

“What if I’m not the Dick you know?” Dick interrupted suddenly. Jason gave a short gasp of surprise, already missing Dick’s body against his own as it shot out of Jason’s grip. “What if that Dick’s gone and I’m all that’s left?”

“He’s not, you’re not, I just meant-“ Jason stammered. He gulped, feeling so goddam useless as the spotlight fell off Dick and onto his own fuckup.  

Jason saw him eyeing the window but Dick was too fast and even as he yelled he knew it was too late. Dick was gone, jumping off the ledge and into the night and when Jason dashed over, desperately throwing himself after the still sobbing man he found only the harsh crunch of gravel cutting into the soles of his bare feet. All he saw was Bruce’s day car of Ferrari parked in the drive in the biggest fuck you to poverty since the mayor’s solid gold your taxes paid for this toilet seat and all he heard was the breeze whispering through swaying trees to the distant hum of late night traffic. Dick was gone, disappeared. Again. But this time it was entirely Jason’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.
> 
> Not sorry.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But this isn't Sunday!"
> 
> ...eheh, oops

“This isn’t you kid.”

“I’m not a kid.” Dick spat, shuffling his body as far away from the intruder’s as he could without totally abandoning the grimy bar stool he was slumped in. Late night existential crisis? There was only one place to deal with that kind of shit and Dick was crammed deep in its corner, one hand cradling the side of his head as the other slammed the last half of a Sex on the Beach down his lips. Jason had always called his drink choice girly but Dick didn’t give a fuck, he’s sad. He’s killed a man. He’s killed a lot more than just a man. Shutup and let him have his damn umbrella.

“No. You’re certainly not.” Slade purred in agreement. A hand moved over the cracked cocktail glass Dick had been holding. He gave a growl of annoyance but reluctantly let the asshole drag it out from his grasp.

“I hadn’t finished that.” He grumbled without looking up.

“Yes you have.” Slade’s voice drawled from over the top of his head. Dick hated being shorter than others, (he’s not insecure, he’s _not_ ) but being looked down on by Slade – literally – rankled more than most.

“C’mon,” the merc chided gruffly. Dick can’t help but wish – stupidly - that he was Jason. It’s a dumb thought, one he shies away from as soon as it crosses his mind. Jason hates him now. Why would he come running through the door, determined to drag Dick home when Dick had broken not just Bruce’s rule but Jason’s too? He’s never going to see Jason again. And he’s fine with that. Totally. Fine.

A hand descended on his shoulder, clamping round his body, just another shackle locking him in place. Keeping him chained like the rabid animal he was. Dick left it there all of two seconds before angrily shrugging it off. He didn’t want chains. He wasn’t that _thing_. Not anymore.

“Get your shit, we’re going,” Slade paused expectantly, probably waiting for him to move. Dick stayed stubbornly exactly where he was, even shifting further down in his seat to get comfier. He could practically hear the glare burning into the top of his skull.

“Dumb kid.”

Dick smirked, his advanced hearing picking up the growl beneath Slade’s breath. He’d known Slade long enough to be able to tell when he was getting under his skin. And right now Dick was under there deep, every second he spent mulishly crammed into his seat scraping away that little bit more at the polished veneer.

Just when he was sure Slade would give in to his innermost desires and finally strangle him the senior blew out a heavy breath. When he spoke again it was at normal volume. And unfortunately with a point. “Or do you want the Bat coming down on our heads?”

And no he definitely did not want that. Seeing Bruce meant one very long, very awkward conversation. Or short, but with long lasting consequences. Probably something along the lines of, “Hey Bruce, I murdered a kid, where am I going? Oh Arkham. Figured I’d get there early, grab a top bunk before they’re all gone.” He swears he can hear a laugh track going off somewhere. The kind you’d get on a bad sitcom. That’s what his life has become. One of those crappy sitcoms he spent six days straight binging. He’s not addicted, Tim, he’s bored and they’re the only thing that the Blud tv channels run when he isn’t working. He can stop watching anytime he wants. Really.

But then he’d never found out if Rachel ended up with Ross and if Monica ditched Richard for Chandler. Okay Tim. So maybe he’s a tiny bit addicted.

Slade, eternal dick that he was, cleared his throat. Loudly.

Dick sighed, the sound rudely ripping him straight out of his thoughts. He huffed, finally bothering to lift his head and glower at his companion. Even in ripped jeans and a loose knit sweater Slade somehow managed to look every bit as imposing as he did in his body armour. Dick hated the tiny shiver that left his spine, even though with its tropical rainforest atmosphere the bar was anything but cold. He’d faced so many evils, but none of them had ever scared him like Slade did. Joker didn’t have super strength. Or advanced super healing. Dent had taken his toll on his childhood – near death experiences  when you’re twelve years old tended to do that – but he’d never terrorised him, never kept him up at night racking his brains in his bed for answers quite like Slade had. Sure, since becoming Nightwing his relationship with his nemesis had changed. They’d reached an understanding of sorts. When they fought, either against the other or against whichever threat had been big, or annoying enough, to pull them together, there was a mutual respect. Maybe they weren’t as clear cut enemies as they once had been, but even though his time as Robin had ended Dick had never quite shaken the feeling that Deathstroke still hadn’t given up on getting his apprentice.

“Why are you here Slade? Did Bruce send you to do his dirty work?” Dick gave a bitter laugh. He caught the bartender’s eye, motioning for another umbrella monstrosity under Slade’s disapproving gaze. “That’s just like B. God he’s a jerk.”

Slade didn’t deny it. He was entirely silent, wordlessly letting Dick rant as he pulled up a stool and sat heavily down next to him. If you couldn’t beat em join em and Dick had always gone out of his way to be as irritating as possible before losing on anything.

Apparently Slade agreed; he gave something of an annoyed growl and eyed the bar, holding up a finger to signify his own order. “I’m not here because of the Bat. I’m here because I hate seeing you like this.”

“A monster?”

Dick’s voice cracked. He blamed the alcohol. He’d had rather a lot of it, if the tower of stacked glasses he’d made four drinks ago were anything to go by.

“Broken.” Slade corrected in a tone that for once wasn’t completely condescending. Dick would say it might even sound, warm. Which was ridiculous. He’d definitely had too much to drink if even Slade was starting to sound affectionate.

“Some things in life are just wrong, and this is one of them.” Slade continued, speaking briskly. Like he was embarrassed of the words and just needed to get them out as fast as possible to be able to move onto more familiar territory; being as big a condescending prick as a ten foot tall cactus. “You’re not a monster kid. Take it from one.”

“Careful Slade. It’s starting to sound like you actually care about me.” Dick giggled, a wry smile on his lips as the bartender – a middle-aged sleazy character, the sort you kind of figured was running some kind of illegal betting ring in his basement – oozed his way over, a hand that stayed far too long on his own pressing the next of Dick’s hit list into his palm. 

Slade caught the greasy leer, an eyebrow snaking up as he accepted his own drink. A Scotch. Despite his situation Dick found himself smiling as he pictured a grim-faced Slade sipping a pink drink out of a sparkly curly straw. It was hard not to laugh, but then Slade being the need to know everything asshole he was would want to know why and he’d already broken one relationship beyond repair, it was probably best not to antagonise to murder the one guy in his corner he had left.

The bartender took one look at the toned muscle beneath the navy sweater and went running. Probably back to that underground betting ring in his basement. Dick watched him go, not a single bit surprised when the grubby apron and even grubbier head of greying hair disappeared behind a swing door marked private in blood red all caps. Dick rolled his eyes. They may as well as have hung a neon arrow pointing to the totally illegal, secret gangster HQ.

Dick’s attention swung back to his partner. Slade may have been silent before but he was annoyingly talkative now. Dick inwardly groaned. It was impossible not to listen. Stupid superpowers.

“Hardly. I care about protecting my assets.” Slade drawled, an appreciative hum audible just above the boom of what Jason would call the death of actual music.

Dick slammed his now empty glass back on its coaster. Health and safety and all that bull. Though he suspected the place wouldn’t make it past the first page of regulations. Basement betting rings or not. “Of which you count me as one.” He finished, the crack still in his voice. Stupid alcohol.

Slade nodded sagely like Dick had just filled three blackboards of equations and solved the meaning of life. “You were always good kid. Even before this. My offer still stands you know.”

He didn’t have to ask to know which offer Slade was talking about. Dick suddenly felt sick. The hand on his shoulder returned but this time he let it stay.

“So what, I’d be the padawan to your Sith Lord?” He snorted, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

 “If it’s about the no killing rule we both know that you crossed that line long ago.” Slade took another measured sip from his glass, the picture of calmness as Dick’s own charade shattered.

“I’m not a villain Slade. Not willingly.” He snarled. The glass in his hands trembled, threatening to give under the now white knuckle grip.

Slade looked over the rim of his scotch, a twinkle of amusement in his one eye. Like Dick was the five year old he was watching throw a tantrum over a trip to the dentist. He shivered, suddenly feeling extremely small despite there being only a couple of inches height difference between his head and Slade’s.

Slade finished his drink, placing it down next to Dick’s previous ten. “Remember kid, I asked nicely. This time. Now actually get your shit together, we have precisely five more minutes before one of your meddlesome brothers discovers my absence.”

Dick scowled but obeyed, sliding off his stool stiffly. The last thing he wanted to deal with right now was Damian busting through the skylight and threatening to behead the owner of the establishment. Or Jason slugging the barstaff for being a creep. Or just, anything to do with Jason.

“What did you do? Fluff a pillow?” He asked as a joke. He didn’t expect Slade’s answer to be totally serious.

“An amateur move. I fluffed two.” Slade huffed, squaring his shoulders and Dick couldn’t help but think he’d struck a nerve.

His eyebrows shot into the next stratosphere. “Was that a joke?” A full blown grin slid over his lips. “Omg The Terminator just totally told a joke. Where are we going anyway?” His voice broke, face falling. His gaze drooped, his eyes toeing the floor. “I can’t just walk back through the front door now that-”

“I’ve got a safehouse three blocks away.” Slade interrupted smoothly. “You won’t be able to hide there forever but for tonight it should be more than adequate.”

“Y’know actually that sounds, that sounds pretty damn close to perfect.” Dick wheezed, pushing down the beginnings of panic attack that had started ever since he had begun picturing returning to the manor, the look in Jason’s horrified eyes, the disappointment in Tim and Damian’s faces, Bruce’s disproving glare…

“Pretty damn perfect.” He repeated weakly, hurriedly following Slade through the thin bar crowd and out the door into the fresh air.

…

“Bathroom’s first door on the left, towels are on the rack. Bedroom’s down the hall. There are blankets in the drawers and clothes in the closet. Kitchen’s next right. Food’s in the fridge. Just try not to make much of a mess.” Slade instructed, an arm gesturing off to each door he had listed.

“A mess, me?” Dick grinned, batting his lashes innocently as he practically bolted towards the kitchen. It was well-past breakfast and yeah he just found out he killed a kid but being a monster didn’t make him any less hungry. Poor word choice aside he could murder a stack of pancakes right now.

“I’ve seen you eat Richard.” Slade answered flatly without looking back as he disappeared into one of the rooms. “And there’ve been no type two hurricanes forecast so you better clean up after yourself, is that clear?”

“Yes _mom_.” Dick couldn’t help but pout as he raided the insides of Slade’s cupboards. A few times he had to catch himself so as not to whistle in appreciation. He’d never had Deathstroke down as the Ben  & Jerry’s, quiet nights on the couch kind of guy but according to the fridge contents that’s exactly what Slade was.

“Phish Food my favourite, aw how’d you know?” Dick called, half in jest, half in the hope that Slade hadn’t been spying on him that one night he’d had a whole three tubs to himself.

“Call it intuition.” Slade shouted from down the hall and Dick groaned, casting his mind back to the time and trying to remember if there’d been any unexplained bumps outside his window.

“Quite a place you’ve got here.” Dick yelled, tongue pushed between his teeth as he pulled random drawer after random drawer out in the hopes of finding a spoon.

“Not all of us have mansions as summer houses Grayson.” Slade chided, appearing just long enough to throw a bundle of fresh clothes at Dick’s head before disappearing behind one of the doors again.

Dick choked back profanities, choosing to pull the tee over his chest – he’d kind of forgotten exactly how naked he was. Aside from the boxers that he’d thankfully borrowed off Jason he was embarrassingly unclothed. He pulled the trousers over his legs and found that they fitted surprisingly well. He went back to his search, enjoying their warmth, too cold to follow through on his initial desire to hunt Slade out from wherever he’d gone and hurl the bundle back at the merc’s own face.

Finding success he nudged the drawer shut with the back of his butt and turned so as to walk away. His eyes fell to a fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and he grabbed an apple off it as he went past; Alfred would kill him if he wasn’t a little bit healthy, not that demolishing a whole tub of ice cream solo was unhealthy. He just really really didn’t want to get on the butler’s hitlist. If Alfie asked he’d say he only had half. Bacon sufficiently saved, he grinned, balancing the fruit on the centre of the ice cream tub lid as he made a beeline towards the settee in front of the TV. He briefly wondered if Slade paid for cable. Then again the man wore an eyepatch; part of Dick would be disappointed if he didn’t illegally pirate all his movies.

By the time Slade returned Dick had already made himself comfortable in a disorganised mess of cushions ripped off the seats of couches.

“What? I got cold.” He defended, shivering to underline his point. The corner Slade’s lip curled up critically. He opened his mouth to say something but gave up, jaw setting as he handed over a stack of spare blankets, presumably the aforementioned spares from the bedroom. Dick stretched each one out suspiciously, checking for; he didn’t know what, sedative-dipped needles? (With Slade you never knew). Inspection passed he gave a pleased hum, sinking deeper into his new cocoon.

Despite all that something still didn’t add up. The cupboards, the fridge, Dick normally kept his safehouses well stocked but not with fresh produce, even Disaster Chefs knew that fresh fruit went off and fast. The spare blankets, the clothes that should have been hanging a metre off his hips but instead fitted him perfectly. Too perfectly. It was too organised. Too setup, almost like-

“You’ve been planning this.” Dick accused, grumbling through a spoonful of icecream.

“Perhaps.” Slade confessed, sounding about as guilty as a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Dick glared as he seated himself in the armchair next to the couch. “I knew the extent of your activities would come to light eventually. I figured that you would prefer privacy when they did.”

“And you wonder why my brothers call you creepy.” Dick muttered beneath his breath. “Fine, you were right.” He gritted his teeth. Uneasy truce or not, expressing gratitude to Slade for anything was always agonising. “Thanks.”

“There. Was that so hard?” Slade smirked. He leaned forward in his seat, taking the opportunity to steal the apple off the discarded ice cream lid. He took a loud bite, still smirking. The asshole.

“Yes.” Dick hissed, glaring daggers as he sulkily shovelled in another mouthful of Phish Food.

“You can stay here tonight Richard. But only tonight.” Slade reminded. He shot a meaningful look towards the entrance. “I do like my front doors unbroken down.”

Dick’s panicked whimper was apparently the green light for Slade to swoop off his perch and onto the couch beside him. Hugging Slade was a lot like hugging Jason. Except the fingers pulling the tangles out of his hair were a little bit less reassuring and the hand on his back dragging him into Slade’s chest a little more possessive. But Slade was warm and offering comfort rather than judgement. He’d made it perfectly clear he still wanted Dick – and not the memory of something he’d used to be. If anything Slade wanted this version of him more.

So Dick rapidly found himself unravelling. The brokenness that he’d hid around his family, the fear that Jason and the others expected him to return to something he could no longer be, it all bubbled to the surface and soon he was sobbing into Slade’s shoulder as the merc whispered hushed praises into his ear and stroked strips of his tear-stained cheek.

“It’s okay Richard.” Slade murmured as Dick’s lashes fluttered sleepily. “You still have me.” Slade’s breath tickled the insides of Dick’s lobe, his stubble itchy against Dick’s skin. “You’ll always have me.”

Dick’s sobs caught, his mouth hanging stupidly open as the world faded out of focus. His cries slurred, tongue floundering as his body swayed, suddenly thrown off balance.

“Ish cream.” He frowned, staring at the spoon resting in the ice cream tub in confusion before understanding clicked. “Yew drushed me.”

“For your own good.” Slade replied casually. And since when had Deathstroke had a twin? “You’ll feel better after some rest.”

“You asssshole.” Dick slurred. He struggled, weakly fighting to get out of Slade's arms. He tried not to feel totally helpless but it was kind of hard not to feel like a damsel in need of shining knight when yours limbs feel alien and the ceiling decides to turn on its side. Dick was distantly aware of being picked up, but the hands lifting him off the couch felt a million miles away. Part of him knew it was Slade, Slade that’d he’d normally sock in the jaw before he could get even a finger onto his skin, Slade that he was currently snuggling further into, crashing his body against the senior’s like his life depended on it, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. He’d much prefer if the room slowed down, or stopped spinning altogether for just one moment.

“You’re safe Richard. _Sleep_.” Slade ordered, and Dick greedily obeyed, his eyes sliding shut of their own accord as the noise of his mind slipped away into a blissful nothing.

…

Dick didn’t come back until the next evening. The next evening. Jason, Tim and Damian had spent the whole night and day scouring the entire city and found nothing. Jason spent thirteen hours alone ransacking Crime Alley and its surrounding area in full panic mode, terrified that the Court had returned to claim what had been theirs all along. Petrified that the next time he saw Dick it would be back in that leather armour as he pressed a blade against his throat. Hours of asking himself what he’d do when he pulled those goggles from the yellow bloodthirsty eyes and found them blank.

Tim was sympathetic. Damian unsurprisingly, wasn’t. He blamed him. And all those times Jason thought he’d pissed the brat off before, all those threats baby bird had spat at his face when he was holding a gun against his temple, they were pretty little kiddy’s poems compared to the bloody wrath of Satan Jason had apparently invoked by chasing Dickiebird from the nest a second time. He’d stared in disbelief as the ‘baby-faced, blue-eyed sweet angel’ (Dick’s words, not his) finished his rant. That kid needed to clean his mouth out with at least three different bars of soap.

It was Slade that found him. Slade that brought him home and god Jason hated that. That it was someone else who stormed through the door of the mansion, but that it was Slade; a half-conscious, bleary eyed Dick slung over his shoulder. It was supposed to be him; his back that Dick was drooling all down, his hands anchoring the man in place so that he didn’t fall and crack his skull open on the front step like the accident prone idiot he was.

And it was Slade. Slade’s shoulder, Slade’s hands, Slade’s goddam smug face smirking like he’d just been handed world domination on a silver platter. Jason went to take Dick from him and Slade just shouldered him out of reach, drawling that “Richard didn’t want to see him,” with a smile that would have rivalled the Cheshire cat’s.

Part of him was happy; ecstatic that Dick had come back. A much larger, much louder part of him wanted to know why Dick was wearing Slade’s if am oompa lumpa fucked a traffic cone sweater.  The hissy jealous girlfriend part of him nearly bitchslapped Slade right in front of Alfred when the asshat had the audacity to suggest that Dick should maybe move out of Jason’s room, then offered his own as an alternate.

Jason did actually punch him. Hard enough to break his nose when Dick agreed with the prick.

“So it’s all agreed then?” He muttered darkly, catching Damian’s gaze from across the Cave where he was still sulking in the corner. He gagged, sucking in air between his teeth as Tim bandaged his knuckles just a little too tight to not be on purpose. Huh, maybe the bugger wasn't as sympathetic as he'd first thought. “We kill the fucker and make it look like an accident, yeah?”


	37. Red Robin Red Bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Stares guiltily at last release date*
> 
> Sooooo, it's been a while huh?

Dick’s return had done nothing to lighten the tension in the mansion. Jason had been hoping Slade’s exaggeration of Dick never wanting to talk to him again had been exactly that – exaggeration. But two hours after Slade had blazed back into their lives with a blissed out Dickie strung on his shoulder like a sack of concussed potatoes and he still hadn’t seen the returned vigilante once – not even after staking out the kitchen in the off chance of Dick sneaking off for his usual everything but the sink snack. Jason groaned, swallowing a yawn as he caught a glimpse of the clock hanging off the wall. The bird hadn’t won the Hide and Seek Championships for nothing - Dick knew some of the best hiding spots in the mansion which unfortunately meant that no one, not Bruce, not Jason, would be finding him anytime soon, not unless he wanted to be. Jason suspected Alfred knew exactly where he’d run off to but the butler had mysteriously vanished into one of the many rooms and had not yet reappeared. Damian had stormed out long ago and Tim had hurriedly followed, shooting an apologetic look as gambling legs broke into a sprint to catch up with the brat, probably to make sure that the psycho didn’t shish-kebab someone in the street which left Jason pretty much alone.  

Pretty much alone because (unsurprisingly) Bruce had been about as much help as an emotionally constipated one legged sloth trying to run a marathon. Jason had caught a glimpse of him death glowering at Slade in a reaction much less slugging him one in the face and kicking him out of the place than he’d liked before he’d disappeared behind the door of his private study. Probably to moon over the framed photo of Dick in short shorts he kept in the desk drawer. Yeah, like that was healthy viewing for a guy Bruce’s age. Not that Jason was sour over the picture. Why would he be? Nothing to do with the fact that his so called ‘father’ figure didn’t keep one of him. Or Tim. Or even Damian.

And yeah he’d checked. He hadn’t exactly been expecting to see his rugged good looks staring back at him but that there wasn’t one of _Damian;_ B’s emotional baggage of having an illegitimate son he didn't know about for ten years was apparently still stuck passing through airport security.

Three more hours sunk down into the deepest depths of the rickety kitchen chair and Jason was just about ready to throw the towel. Or the damn chair. Another sixty minutes of watching the door, silently willing to spot that familiar gelled up do and he gave up, disgracefully accepting defeat and toppling his seat to the floor as he stood. Sure the tiling wasn’t Slade’s smug grin but it still felt good. Even if Alfred’s first appearance of the day was to hunt him down and make him polish the scud marks out barely ten minutes since he stormed out the door.

It wasn’t that Dick was avoiding him that Jason hated. It was that Dick was avoiding him for Slade last he checked was the enemy Wilson. All enthusiastic gun to head pointing aside, at least Jason had always returned Dickwing safe and relatively sound after their unplanned reunions in the unsavoury back-alleys and smelly armpits of the city. That Dick would choose Slade, who’s only ever handed him back with a Batarang or bo staff pointed at his delicates, to run and hide behind was beyond insulting and he was in a downright horrible mood because of it; snarling and snapping at the two sidekicks when they returned; Damian sheepish-faced and Tim, sweaty, still panting and sporting a nice new bruise on his temple.

Jason didn’t say anything when he opened the door, though he did snake an eyebrow at seeing Damian’s sword swinging from the belt at Tim’s hip. Damian tracked his line of sight and wilted. Tim opened his mouth, not even getting the first syllable out before Jason had wordlessly slammed the door to his room in their reddened faces before the two could attempt to explain themselves – or worse, start a pep talk.

They wisely stayed well away for the rest of the day and the following morning; turning and sprinting off the other way at the sound of stomping feet or making up flimsy excuses (since when had Damian ever willingly made his bed?) to escape his presence. It was a good thing they did too. In the mood he was in Jason wasn’t entirely sure he could listen to Damian’s bitching and not slam his brother’s head as painfully as possible into the nearest wall.

He’d hoped to talk to Dick alone but to his horror when Dick did finally show up at his door it was only to collect his things. And with Slade’s hand firmly attached to his shoulder. 

He tried to catch the man’s gaze but Dick blushed and ducked his head, eyes downturned as they became suddenly enamoured with the carpet. The air might as well be lead weights it was so heavy and after an awkwardly mumbled hello went unreturned the rest of the exchange passed in silence. Dick – guided by Slade – shuffled forward, picked his stuff up from off the bed and shuffled back – still steered by Slade and all without even looking up or uttering a single word. Dick fled down the hall like someone had just put a torch under his ass and lit it but Slade lingered, pausing long enough to offer a triumphant smirk before striding out the door and swaggering after his prize. Jason’s hand throbbed as it left the wall. A snarl grunted between his lips as he imagined Slade’s nose beneath his screaming knuckles.

He flexed the pain from his fingers, exhaling sharply as he flopped down on the edge of the bed. A bed he’d been happily sharing with Dick, pillow drool and all, a hundred and twenty hours ago. He drew his hand into his chest, bunching his knees up and glaring at the door, hoping but unsure what he would do if Slade dared to come back for another victory lap.  He missed the weight of Dick’s hand clamped around his stomach. He missed the fruity tang of whatever bullshit girly shampoos Dick had used that morning. He missed the Antarctica level skin temp that somehow always managed to feel Goldilocks style just right against his flesh. But most of all he missed the noise.

Much like his abysmal cooking and his unhealthy need to interfere in everything, the noise Dick Grayson brought to a room was chaos personified. To put it simply nothing about the man ever shut up. At any point in time Dick was either yapping off five hundred words a minute about a recap of the latest episode of Gossip Girl, wailing enough tears to flood the mansion’s entire downstairs or producing tremors on the same scale as a type 4 earthquake.

On the first night of proper Batclan team-up stakeout happy hour he’d told Tim, some point through the teen’s fourth flask of coffee, he’d eat his right arm if he ever missed Dick’s garguantian Godzilla roar snoring. He’s sure Alfred could probably whip him up something snazzy but he likes hus right arm a little too much to have it replaced by some robotic doodad. Which is why when his second least liked sibling knocked softly on the door with a soft, breathy “Jason?”  he forced himself to look a little less like an injured puppy just set on fire then kicked onto train tracks.

Impossibly, he gathers what could be called a smile to his face then sets about angrily swiping fingers over to his eyes to dislodge the gathering tears. He’s just finished cleaning the last incriminating drops away when Tim abandons all pretence of privacy and barges in. Jason’s not going to say anything on how the boy managed to negate the lock though he does let out a chuckle as Tim’s body pitches forward, his shoulder connecting with air rather than the wooden frame Jason had milliseconds before thrown open. He glances stormily at the intruder long enough to make the teen feel awkward before shutting the door and leaning back on the wall, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

“Jason.” Tim stuttered, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s nice to know his name hasn’t been forgotten in the five seconds since the teen said it. Tim’s hand scratched the skin of his elbow, a nervous tick Jason had noticed occurring a lot lately.

“Jason.” Tim starts again. He stops fidgeting, voice dropping its cracks, his height slowly unfurling as he gains confidence. “I know things look bad-“

“Things look fucking terrible.” Jason mutters darkly under his breath.

“But they’re going to get better.” Tim continues, his own glare, the kind of condescending planet destroying formula of glower and sneer that Jason could only dream of mastering yet Red Robin somehow had down pat, forming on his face at the interruption. “With a little help from Starfire and Kid Flash I’m sure we can convince Dick to at least stay away from Slade for a while but right now you need to-“

“Hold those horses there Timbo.” Jason is pretty sure Tim’s about to break Bruce’s golden rule, cross the room and strangle him as he cuts in a second time. There’s a seventy five percent chance he’s going to wake up tomorrow in another coffin because he just interrupted Tim and no one, but no one interrupts Tim and gets away with it. It doesn’t matter that he’s heard the same stupid speech nearly enough times to have it memorised, or that the fifty minutes of so piece of literary mastery essentially comes down to ‘sack up, don’t be a bitch.’

There’s a reason no one spreads nasty rumours behind the back of bat boy numero tres. And that’s because bat boy numero tres is a sadistic motherfucker who normally already has your bank details and the four year old nudes you scrubbed off Facebook on copy paste command.

But that’s future Jason’s problem. Present Jason has so much more to worry about. Like maybe kissing and making up so that the love of his life actually acknowledges his existence in the next millennia. Or faulty woodwork. Except that his bedroom door isn’t faulty – there’s no way Alfred would ever allow so much as a squeaky floorboard, much less an ill-fitting door without taking a sledgehammer to the offender and ordering a total refurbishment of the entire room. The line of light streaming in isn’t enough to explain a buckled hinge but the gash is more than enough to let sound that would otherwise be distorted travel through perfectly clear. And Jason should know – he’d been listening in on conversations through doors since before he could walk.

Tim emits a terrified squeak, flinching as he passes even though Jason didn’t even touch him, the wuss; instead throwing the door back open and grabbing an arm before the eavesdropping brat can run.

“Fancy the chances of seeing you here.” Jason semi-sings, dragging Damian into the centre of the room before dropping his grip and glaring. “S’real rude to listen in on other people’s conversations kid.”

“Todd I demand you cease this tomfoolery and go talk some sense into Grayson at once.” Damian snarled, demanding a little less diplomatically than his predecessor. His expression was more than enough to have Jason biting back any comment making fun of the fact that he’d actually just used the word ‘tomfoolery’ in normal conversation. Stood back straight and feet planted, lips curled and face set stonily, Damian was easily enough to rival even the fugliest of Gotham’s gargoyles.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jason answered without looking at the brat, wheeling on his heel and throwing himself back onto the bed quilts with a practised fury. He huffed, glowering out the window only to turn immediately away, heart hammering as it tried to remember its regular pace.

“Not like the view?” Tim inquired innocently, his mouth forming a crooked grin as he gazed onto the lawn.

“The oak tree looks like shit.” Jason muttered waspishly, trying to pretend that the tree’s dying leaves were the problem, and not the little birdie resting its head on Slade’s shoulder beneath them.

Damian’s eyes flash an expression Jason recognizes easily. Triumph.

“Perhaps I should inform Pennyworth of your opinion.” The little demon drawls smugly. He shares a look with Tim, both knowing they’ve won. Not even Jason was crazy enough to cross Alfred.

“Perhaps you should shove a stick up your ass.” Jason snarls, missing the good old days where this little spat would be solved with a nice not so little shiner over Damian’s left eye. But shoving his not quite brother into the door by the face would mean enduring another 3 hour lecture over why violence isn’t the answer (says the man who solves all his problems with punches to the face, Bruce you hypocritical bastard). So Jason squares his shoulders and only imagines throwing his bedside lamp at Damian’s head.

“Perhaps you should go dive off a cliff.” Damian suggests snidely, sniffing down the end of his nose in the way that has Jason dead set on the belief that the brat really is some prince of hell crawled out of the pit just to piss him off.

Jason hissed, his nostrils flaring as he draws in a deep breath. “Perhaps you should go fu-“

“Perhaps you should talk to Dick.” Tim interrupts before Jason can tell Damian exactly where he can go. He sighs, exasperated as he pulls nervously at the ends of his fringe.

Jason’s head tipped back as he gave a dull chuckle. And people actually thought the kid was smart. “You heard Slade. He doesn’t want to talk to me. He won’t even look at me.”

“Maybe if you try,” Tim pleads, his voice hedging on desperation. His body visibly wilts, shrinking in on itself as he rubs anxiously over the side of his arm.

“He listened to you before.” Damian added softly, mumbling the words so quietly Jason isn’t even sure if he imagined them. A sob catches in his throat and Jason grinned. So the baby bro was jealous Dick had a new favourite?

Jason huffed. “Well that was before he threw himself out of a window to get away from me. So no, maybe I shouldn’t talk to him. Don’t you two have somewhere to be?” His expression hardened, a scowl etching the shape of his face as his eyes narrow. “Like, anywhere but here?”

“Jay.”

Jason held up a hand, cutting the boy off before he could start. “I don’t want to hear this right now Tim. Especially not from you.”

“Give it up Drake. It’s obvious he isn’t going to listen.” Damian sneers, throwing one last apocalypse-inducing look over his shoulder before marching from the room.

“Go on,” Jason nods his head towards the spot where Damian had disappeared. “Scram.”

He’s expecting Tim to tremble, cow and slip away, tail firmly between his legs. Which is probably why he jumps – actually jumps though he'll deny it if anyone ever asks – out of his skin when Tim blows up, red as a beetroot with a nasty suntan, and fair to say explodes.

In fact, he’s fairly sure there’s at least one popped vessel swimming about the teen’s forehead right now.

“So what?!”Tim roars, hands pumping up and down erratically like a robot gone into meltdown. His nasty case of resting bitch face is gone, replaced by the kind of expression Jason's seen in Killer Croc's eyes when the oversized lizard is seconds away from popping his head clean off his shoulders.

“You’re just going to sit up here and mope while our brother gets enchanted into a life of murder and slavery?”

Tim stomps across the room, his hands snatching Jason’s collar and lifting him up from the bed part way. Jason growls a warning but incredibly Tim ignores it – or just doesn’t care; puffing his height up to its pitiful full size and pushing his face closer. Jason's nose wrinkles as its assaulted by the stench of decaf.

“He needs us to be there for him, not some washed-up ex-sidekick asshole sulking in his room like a brat who just got told he can’t have dessert.” Tim growls, spitting the words, bulldozing through each with a feral snarl tagged on at the end. Jason had never seen him so angry – except for maybe that time his business studies teacher graded him an A- on his essay. The place had been unliveable for weeks. Well, more unliveable than it already was.

“Open your goddam mouth Jason,” Tim laughs. The sound falls flat and right then more than ever before Jason misses Dick’s infectious giggle. “You’ve never had a problem with that before, and go fucking talk to him.” 

Jason sees red. Well, technically he sees green. After effect of the Pit, apparently.

“Get out Tim.” Jason whispers, voice suddenly fallen deathly quiet. “Just get out.”

He feels a sharp bolt of satisfaction when Tim’s face falls. So Tim knows he fucked up? Good. He lets go of Jason’s shirt like it had just stung him and stumbles away from the bed. He’s almost at the door before his features compose and his retreat falters. He quivers, trembling in place before he backtracks, making a step forward, apology already on his lips as hands stretch for a hug. It’s a move so stolen off Dick that it physically hurts and Jason’s having none of it.

“GET OUT!” He screams, throwing every shred of pain and hurt into the two words, (and the table lamp, which hits the wall to the side of Tim, the shade crumpling on impact) howling them in an inhumane shriek so splitting he’s sure the windows only owe their lives to all of Bruce’s over-exaggerated security systems.  

Tim, pale-faced and stricken, wobbles on his feet, momentarily stunned before turning on his heel and fleeing.

...

Jason stared at the ceiling and realised at some point all that rage and sleep deprivation had caught up with him. He’d fallen asleep enraged and woken up still furious.

He gave a low growl as he sat up, hissing in indignation as his fingers twinged at the movement. He gave them a quick once over, a little worried to see he’d turned half Smurf at some point in the night, but relief came quick when it was apparent there weren’t any broken bones, though there’d be a nasty bruise for at least the next week.

He scowled, sending a look over to the light streaming through the bottom of his curtains before ripping the hair out of his eyes with his good hand. He doesn't need to glance in the mirror to know he looks like shit. So instead he just crawls out of bed, throws an oversized tee and baggy joggers over his frame and stumbles blearily out of his room and down the hall.

There were three places Jason went when he was angry. Since he wasn’t about to abandon Dick to Deathstroke, either to kick his old tombstone or pass out on some curb after one too many tequilas that left just the one. He didn’t really expect the training range to be empty, what with their benched status and collective love for rule breaking, but it was a grateful surprise when he found it was. The last thing he wanted right now was Damian standing beside him and bragging that he could do every backflip twice as better than some picked up street rat. He gave the gymnastics equipment a wide berth. Only one person had ever really used them and it seemed wrong to violate that tradition - especially now. Dick had always been the most agile out of all of them - even B. Not that he ever admitted it. The trapeze dangling from the rafters of the Cave’s ceiling was just as much home to the acrobat as the junkyard tip he called an apartment back in the Blud (He doesn’t care what Dick says whenever he visited the place always looked like some tornado has just blown in. The man led a team of 7 squabbling teenage superheroes for fuck’s sake, yet somehow he still can’t manage to organise clean laundry from dirty).

The punching bag hanging in his peripherals was his normal go to; he’d spend hours using it, throwing left hooks and jabs until his knuckles were raw and bloody, but he avoided that as well. His hands still stung from the wall and right now he needed something more, something that let him feel powerful and deadly. Something that reminded him he could just put Slade down right now if he felt like it - walk up those stairs and stick a bullet between his smug eye and patch. He’d like to see Slade try and heal the three quarters of his brain matter splattered over the walls.

Bruce would never put a proper gun range in his cave so Jason has to improvise - something that after one too many plans going horrendously wrong he’s actually become pretty damn good at. So he makes do with the training dummies, walking with a purpose over to the straw corpses and pulling out a colt .45 from the holster at his hip. He squinted, lining the shot up with the head before grunting and dropping it down to level with the shoulder. 

“Eat lead You. Stupid. Steroided. Fucking. Pain. In. My. Ass. Prick.” He snarls between grounded teeth, punctuating each word with another bullet.

He fired off seven rounds, whirling, reloading and firing off another seven into the dummy to his left. If he concentrated hard enough it was easy to swap the straw slowly leaking out of the chest with the image of Slade’s pinky innards draining out of his side.

He was so focused he didn’t notice he had company until a hand clapped him on his shoulder. The gun in his hand jerks up, the bullet snagging a stray stalactite. He whipped round, a growl already rumbling deep in his chest, to face whoever the fuck had thought interrupting him when he had an armed firearm was a good idea. Part of him hopes its Bruce (only because then he’d have an excuse to shoot him). But Bruce would never be that unbelievably stupid.

Tim remembered the time he’d been walking in the woods with his mother and come across a hornet’s nest. Janet Drake had seen the light flash in his eyes as he toddled towards the strange new thing and warned him to keep his hands away, explaining only that it was dangerous and he shouldn't go near it. Tim, taken by his childish curiosity, had ignored her and pushed his palms into the lump, a tiny shriek that quickly grew into a ear splitting howl leaving his throat as his skin started to tingle and burn.

Talking to Jason was a lot like poking that nest, only instead of fingers Tim was equipped with electrified cattle prods. He jumped nearly half a mile when the gun went off, his scrunched shut eyes peeking slowly open, a flood of relief washing the nausea away when he opened them and found no immediate blood spray. 

Jason hissed, angrily shaking the hand off. Tim held it up in surrender. “Whoa, easy.” He soothed, trying to look anywhere but the smoking gun still very much gripped in Jason’s hand. He blinked, trying very hard to stop his brain from connecting dots of angry Jason, loaded firearm and the motherload of mistakes he’d yelled at said angry vigilante. 

“Couldn’t sleep either huh?” Tim asked, pausing hopefully for an answer. Jason, in return, lifted the gun and calmly pulled the trigger.

“I just came to apologise. I shouldn’t have said that stuff. You were a great Robin. Easily one of the best.” Tim stuttered, nearly going cross-eyed from the effort of keeping the gun in focus.

Jason growled something noncommittal that Tim desperately hoped wasn’t what he heard it as. Or Red Robin had better pack his bags and move out of the country ASAP.

But Jason still hadn’t shot him so Tim took that as a sign he was allowed to keep going.

“He doesn't hate you, you know.” he continued, trying to keep the terror out of his voice as Jason stayed silent, thudding three more bullets into that stupid, steroid pain in his ass motherfucking prick with deadly precision.

“He's just scared, and hurting. This stuff can’t have been easy for him.”

The gun in Jason’s hand dipped, the shot going wide and pinging off the wall with a loud crack. The sound of bat wings filled the cave as their owners scrambled for safety. “Slade said-“

Tim allowed himself a smile as Jason’s eyes finally locked with his. His expression softened into something he hoped looked more comforting than the terror he was feeling. “Since when does anyone listen to Slade?”

“Since he brought Goldie back home in his fucking arms like they’d just got back from goddam tying the knot.” Jason snapped, growling as he rammed more bullets down the gun’s throat and was it Tim’s imagination or were Jason’s eyes more green than normal? And glowing? He coughed and made a mental note to talk to Bruce about it later.

Jason was just short of rolling his eyes as Tim wheezed a laugh. The ragged chuckle sounded more like a cover up to a terrified squeak.

“Dick would never marry Slade. He’s way too creepy. And not a redhead.” Tim added as an afterthought. One eye swept up and down as he forced a nervous wink. “Although it would be funny to see Bruce’s face when he saw the ring and-“ Jason gave a bellow that would have driven any raging bull to shame and suddenly the very much now reloaded gun was very much in his face. 

“But Dick would never marry Slade,” Tim backpedalled, panicking. His life flashed before his eyes. Some of it his parents, some of it Bruce and Dick, though quite a lot of the reel was very much the same scenario. The scenery changed; sometimes moonlit rooftop, sometimes darkened alley, but it always came down to the same thing. Jason, him and a loaded gun. Tim gulped. That probably said far too much about his family life than he liked to admit.

“So let’s just put this down,” He muttered weakly as he gingerly guided the gun barrel down in line with the floor.

Jason made a strangled noise in the back of his throat but didn’t resist, allowing Tim’s fingers to curl gently over and push his hands and the gun still in them down.

“Dick would never marry that snake. Never.” Jason repeated, his words a venomous hiss. “And I’d kill him myself if he ever tried to.”

A note crept into Jason’s voice, a new piece of data that had Tim stopping and stared, his mouth falling open in shock. “Are, are you jealous?!” He exclaimed. His theory was only proven further as Jason’s legs buckled under like a puppet with its string cut, his eyes flashing panic. Tim’s brain threw itself into high gear as it sped through all the details of the last months at light speed.

“Oh my God.” He gasped as realisation hit like a mallet to the face.

And suddenly it all made sense. The demand that Dick share his bed, the possessive note that crept into Jason’s voice whenever anyone suggested Dick go somewhere with someone that wasn’t him. The deep hatred for Slade. Not just as a criminal but as a rival for Dick’s attention. Tim groaned. It was so obvious; he couldn’t believe he was putting the pieces together only now.

“You are.”

Jason’s face turned white and Tim could tell he’d struck gold.

“Am not.” Jason mumbled, his eyes locked on the wall and cheeks now a pretty pink. He turned, making to run away but Tim predicted the move and intercepted, stepping in front to block the older boy’s retreat.

“You’re jealous of Slade. You’re in love with Dick!” Tim screeched before turning pale as he realised the full meaning of what he’d just said.

Oh god. Jason was in love with Dick.

Oh god. What would Bruce say?

Oh god. What would Damian say?

(What would Damian do?)

“Of course.” Tim babbled. “This explains everything!”

Jason blanched. Tim was five seconds off lifting a finger and screaming eureka. Well fuck, kid wasn’t called world’s best detective jr. for nothing. He mentally cursed his dogshit luck for getting such a fucking nosy family.

“So what if I am!” He hissed, flashing teeth as Tim blocked his exit _again_. Deep breaths Todd. this wasn’t like the old days; he couldn’t just render Tim completely incapacitated and walk away whistling. He had to actually act *yuck* caring towards the a-holes. “Nothing can happen anyway. I'm his fucking brother remember?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before…” Jason’s eyes bugged as Tim groaned. Sure, just confess that you’ve got the moony eyes for your big bro and the kid was still only talking about themselves. Talk about self-obsessed.

Tim blinked, shaking his head as if to pull himself out of the supercomputer that was his thoughts and back into the present. “How long?’

“Since I jacked the first fucking tyre.”Jason grunted in confession. No point in hiding the kittens if the cat was already out of the bag.

Tim’s jaw pumped up and down, his open mouth stuttering as it searched for words before finally going for. “Oh.”

Jason wondered if all Damian’s theories of Tim being a robot planted to steal all his father’s affections away had been true. Maybe he really was a bot and his mind had finally short-circuited.

“Yeah oh.” Jason echoed sarcastically. “Congrats Tim, you really are the world’s best detective. You found out that Red Hood’s just some messed up creep hopelessly in love with his fucking older brother. Bravo.” His palms smashed together in a sarcastic applause.

“We’re all adopted Jason.” Tim reminded gently with a smile. He stopped, a thoughtful expression taking over his face. His expression glazed over and Jason knew he was off in La La Land. 

“Does Dick know?” Tim asked eventually, after what felt like eternity.

“No!” Jason screeched, coughing before recovering. “I mean, no.” He amended, voice returning to its normal volume. “At least, I don’t think so. And you’re not telling him. Not if you ever want to see the sun again.” Jason threatened darkly.

Tim stood motionless (Jason actually started to get worried he really had broken the teen, he’d never seen his replacement stay still for so long) before a grin formed slowly around his lips. “…Jason and Dick, sitting in a tree.”

“Finish that sentence asshole. I dare you.”

Jason’s temper flamed, the idea of a bullet (just a small one) in Tim’s head becoming more appealing by the minute.

“k I s s I n g~” Tim sang, smirking. No sense of self-preservation that one. Though oddly enough Tim’s the only Robin who hasn’t died; what with Jason being unique and original and then Dick and Damian both being total morons and following like two suicidal sheep. Faking death wouldn’t normally count, after all one of them is supposedly six feet under every second week but from the stories he’d heard Dick’s heart did actually stop. Like completely, hospital red squiggly line and dramatic overdrawn beep completely stop. Which is more than enough for a membership to the Dead Robins Club. Tim’s the only one still to stamp his card, though that can be arranged, very easily. 

“I can make it look like an accident, I swear Replacement-“ Jason promised vehemently.

“First comes love, then comes marriage.” Tim’s laughter echoed, his voice ringing off the cave walls as he ducked under the left hook. He spun on his heels and sprinted away, still laughing, into one of the tunnels. His voice floated back, slightly muffled by the distance.

“Then along comes, a baby carriage!” Tim finishes triumphantly, giggling before starting to sing the whole thing again. “Dick and Jason, sitting in a tree-“

Jason groaned, head in his hands. He only hoped he wasn’t running off to tell Damian. Red Hood had never been the spawn’s favourite person in the world, but he’s not exactly sure how the kid would react to finding out the same person he deems unworthy of his father’s name is also head over heels for his favourite brother. He really would like it if he could go just one week without having to run from some psycho with a sword.

...

It wasn’t that Dick was hiding from Jason. He wasn’t. He was tactically avoiding him. And it wasn’t that Dick was hiding behind Slade. It was that being with Slade was so much easier, and right now he just wanted something to be easy. No muss, no fuss, easy. Slade knew he’d killed. Slade was also okay with the fact that he’d killed. Slade wasn’t suggesting metal cages or tracking bracelets or increased safety measures. Slade wasn’t trying to jam a needle into his flesh to see the fifty thousand or so chemicals pulsing in his veins. In fact right now the big bad Deathstroke was spooning him as they snuggled in the spare bedroom the merc had taken up as his own. And it’s _nice_. God help him he’s actually enjoying cuddling up to the Terminator.

 No doubt Bruce would have a fit if he saw them; B had never been able to fully convince him all the rooms didn’t have 24/7 CCTV so maybe Bruce could see them. He hopes, a little vindictively maybe, that he’s sat in a chair down in the Cave popping a blood vessel right now. As the oldest he’s also known Bruce the longest, in fact he knows the man better than probably even Damian. So he also knows that there’s no way Bruce is dealing with this in any definition of the word well. But at the same time, how hard is it to stand at the front door, open your arms and say welcome home son?

“What are you thinking kid?” Slade rumbles against him, breaking his chain of thought. For a moment he’s confused, he blinks, staring foggily at his surroundings. _Why is Slade in his bed? Where was Jason?_ Then the week’s events and arguments come crashing back and all that warm fuzzy feeling goes poof as he remembers.

Slade moves, closing what little gap there had been between them and only now does Dick realise just how big the man is. As the older of 3 brothers he’d never felt small, but next to Slade…Dick had never seen one up close but he’s pretty sure Slade would give a standing grizzly a run for its money.

The muscles in Slade’s biceps ripple as he reaches a paw out and Dick flinches, thinking that it’s about to curl round his neck but the hand drops before it reaches his throat; worn fingers skating over the skin of his shoulder instead. He hadn’t expected the merc to be so hand’s on. So possessive. But then again Slade had always done everything with military precision, killing, stealing – apparently snuggling was no different.

“Kid?”

Dick tries not to squirm as Slade repeats himself impatiently, the words breathy in his ear as the hand on his shoulder falls lower; circling his front and curling a little tighter, pulling him a little further away from the edge of the bed and a little closer against Slade’s covered chest. The move is probably more manipulative than comforting but it’s still contact - contact Dick desperately needs so he drinks it up, compliantly going limp and allowing the older man to press the back of his head into the thin cotton undershirt’s v-line. He’d insisted Slade be fully clothed if they shared, although the boundary he’d set had seemed a lot less meaningful when the top four buttons of Slade’s shirt had popped open, revealing glistening muscle and a light grey shag of chest hair underneath. That same boundary had felt smaller still when Slade’s hands placed on the swell of his stomach and drew him in close enough to feel the hot rush of Slade’s breath on the shell of his ear, then totally nonexistent when Slade pushed their bodies together, fingers settled in a possessive lock just above his belly button.

“I’m not thinking about anything.” Dick whispered, biting back a growl of annoyance as Slade’s body shakes around a bark of laughter.

The blue eye shines bright with mirth. Slade’s huff of laughter cuts off as he dabs a hand over the iris, clearing an imaginary tear. “I’ve known you for years, kid. You’re always punishing yourself for something. That sad you’ve disappointed the Bat?” Slade's voice dropped a pitch. "Or is it maybe that brat? Jason."

“Forget it.” Dick grouched, pulling out of Slade’s grip to flip onto his front and bury his face in the pillow. “Just lemme get some sleep.” He mumbled, the words muffled as he spoke into the material.

He flinched under the fingers on his back but allowed them to stay. A soft moan hummed in his throat as they started to ease out the nicks in his muscles. “You know I’m not one for comfort, but I really am sorry this happened to you Richard.” 

Dick made a downright sinful sound as Slade’s fingers rubbed over a particular spot on his shoulder blade, easing the throbbing. Apparently the merc had found time to become a professional masseuse as well as killer. Dick giggled, imaging Slade in a dojo, dressed in a white robe as an elderly monk teaches him the art of ashiatsu.

“They’re small minded, you make a mistake and they blame you, even if it’s not your fault. They don’t forgive.” Slade murmured, ever the devil whispering treason on his shoulder.

It’s another attempt at manipulation. One that Dick doesn’t take so calmly.

“They’re my family.” He hisses in reminder, angling his body away from the hands and eyeing the door like a cornered animal about to bolt.

Slade’s face softens. He knows he’s messed up. Richard may be more receptive to his touch but any criticism of those he associated himself with was still unwelcome. The detail is noted and he attempts to warm his voice, gently reaching to pat Richard’s shoulder, gingerly coaxing the pretty bird back to his side.

“Family are important. I know.”

Dick scoffed. “What do you know of family? You’re not exactly father of the year material.”

“Did I ever tell you how I lost my eye?’’

Dick's temper is overridden by his curiosity, his anger totally forgotten as his tension falls lax, muscles unknotting. Sensing a story, he eagerly turned back onto his side, resting on one elbow. “I always thought you lost it to a crocodile. I mean, you fight enough young boys in pixie shorts to.”

Dick giggled as Slade’s brow disappeared into his hairline. “Please do try to be serious for at least this one moment in your life.”

“Okay then. An eagle.”

“It may surprise you to know that the problem of malfunctioning relations isn’t unique to the name of Wayne.” Slade chided, normally gravelled timbre a key lower. Dick may not be able to see the man’s emotions on his face (he wasn’t sure whether Slade even knew any expression other than condescending smirk) but after chasing the villain on and off again for the last thirteen years he knew enough of the man’s mannerisms to accurately guess his emotions. Slade may never voice his feelings and Dick was fairly sure if he ever saw Deathstroke cry he would already be radioing B in for clone or possible alien imposters, but for the first time in their history Slade wasn’t meeting his eye; instead staring at the skin just below.  And the volumes that small action spoke were deafening.

“I’ve stomped on a lot of bugs in this life Richard, and rifled just as many tempers. You don’t get where I am in the business without some sort of retaliation. A couple of insects I payed a visit thought they were owed compensation. They took my son, Joey. Slit his throat right in front of my eyes when I went to save him. He lived but he'll never say another word again. My ex-wife wasn’t too happy about that, so she took half my sight and then the rest of my family.”

“Oh. I’m, I’m sorry to hear that.” Dick murmured genuinely. No one, not even a monster like Slade deserved to lose their family.

“Really though?” The awkward silence broke as Slade gave an amused, if somewhat forced chuckle. “An eagle?”

Dick shot his companion an impish grin. “Thought maybe you’d been camping up in some mountains, staking out some rich billionaire contract and it just flew up, snatched it from the socket and flew off to its nest to feed it to its young.”

Slade’s good eye twitched in what Dick thought was disbelief. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a couple screws loose kid?”

Dick shrugged. “I thought the whole Robin costume colour scheme already gave that away.” 

“If a crazy costume is all it takes than half the super community would be behind bars.”

“Not all of them are bad you know.” Dick knocked his shoulder playfully against Slade’s. “Zee and Star’s are at least an eight.”

“And Queen may be a blithering simpleton but at least he has some sense of style. Six point five.” Slade purred appreciatively.

“And Batman?”

“Five at best.” Slade muttered disdainfully.

“Five?!” Dick repeated shrilly, playfully enraged.

“What’s so scary about a bat? What’s it going to do, get stuck in my hair?” Slade drawled, now completely rolling an eye.

Dick swatted at Slade’s arm, giggling. “Bruce is terrifying and you know it.”

“The only thing terrifying about Batman is his expenditure rate.”

“Fine then. What about Nightwing? I hear his is pretty good.”

The top of Slade's lip curls as he smirks. “That pretty bird’s feathers? Why I wouldn’t even give them a one.”

“Screw you!” Dick yelled in false hurt. He hissed, turning his back to signal that the conversation was very much over. He pushed his body deeper into the mattress, exaggerating an insulted huff as he scrunched the covers up further to his neck, forcing his eyes shut and trying not to think of how Slade’s one own had seemed to light up at the words.

...

It’s not that Jason asked to be locked in a storeroom with Dickie like two overly cheesy characters in a sitcom till all their problems are sorted out. It’s just that Tim and Damian didn’t exactly give him much choice - or any for that matter. Then again most cases of kidnap aren’t consensual and dropping from the ceiling to throw a bag over his head - even more insultingly, a burlap sack, the unimaginative assholes - and dragging him kicking and screaming to a room against his will can hardly be defined as anything but a textbook case. There’s the slight silver lining that Damian took the rest of his body with his head which means that Tim hasn’t told him yet, but still, he doesn't give a damn what B says the next time he sees either of the two they’re going straight off the nearest roof edge. He’s yet to decide whether or not still attached to a safety line, but right now, staring at his equally as consensual partner yank at the door, he’s leaning towards the latter. 

Dick gave a scream of indignation, slamming his foot one more time against the frame before turning round and sinking slowly to the ground. The great Nightwing, defeated by a fucking door.

Jason dropped the act and looked properly at his reluctant companion. In the nicest possible way, Dick looked like shit. His once immaculately slicked mane was matted with tufts of hair popping up crazy scientist style all over the place, his normally energetic eyes were puffed raw and bloodshot and his forehead was running wrinkles with the kind of chasms that would give the Grand Canyon a run for its money. And yet, unfairly he still looked hot. That style on anyone else and you’d think they’d just escaped from the crazy farm but somehow Grayson still got to look like he’d just stepped straight out of a Vogue photoshoot. Dick by name, Dick by nature. What an ass.

Dick, sensing the attention, turned his head away.

“So you and Slade huh?” Jason was the first to break the silence.

Dick gave a noncommittal shrug. “He’s not that bad.”

“Cuz i seem to remember a little birdie screaming “That one-eyed fucking son of a bitch” as he dragged his soaking ass out of Gotham harbour.” Jason continued cattily. He grinned as a scowl flashed across Dick’s face.

“He’s not that bad.” Dick repeated, a defensive note in his voice. He jutted his chin out, golden eyes finally meeting Jason’s and glaring. He wasn’t wearing the contacts, Jason realised with a pang. He wasn’t sure why, or when he’d stopped wearing them. “He accepts me for who I am.” 

“No, he accepts you for who he wants you to be.” Jason growled shortly, all false calm gone from his voice as his patience snapped. “Have you forgotten the nightmares he gave you Dickie? Because I sure as hell haven’t.”

“That was in the past.” Dick protested. “Things are different now.”

“Yeah you’re right, it is different now. Because this time it isn't some threatened alien crush that has you running into his arms. It’s you being an idiot. What you gonna do Dick? Trade blue for orange and run round the city as the apprentice he’s always wanted just cuz of a couple days of kissy faces and sweet talk?” Jason snarled harshly. Couldn't the moron tell when he was being played?

“You don’t know anything about Slade.” Dick hissed sharply.

“I know he’s manipulative, and he’s hurt you, real bad. I know that you were in hospital for a month after he nearly broke your neck when you guys fought over a stupid contract. I know that you came back from Jump haunted and screaming his name into your pillow every night. I know that he’s the closest villain you’ve ever come to killing.”

“Don’t act like you’re so innocent. Don’t pretend like you haven’t killed people too.” Dick fired back, voice rising as his temper sparked.

“Yeah bad people, Dick. And not for _money._ I kill to make the world a better place, not to make a fucking profit.”

Jason stopped. He sighed. He was screwing this up. He was screwing this up royally.

His fingers played with a loose thread on his jeans as his eyes toed the floor.

“How’d it get to this?”

“Our brothers and a burlap sack.” Dick deadpanned.

“No, not that. This.” Jason's eyes slid to the door.

“This?”

“This.” Jason gestured between them. “You and me. A week ago we were sharing icecream and singing Disney duets livestream to three quarters of the JL. What happened to that?”

“Things change. That’s life.” Dick muttered hollowly.

“Well they can change back, can’t they?”

Dick was silent.

“Can’t they?” Jason repeated, edging on hysterical.

He sighed as Dick fixed his eyes resolutely on one of the shelves. Nice to know the ass found a tin of beans more interesting than his own brother. Jason rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t normally emotional – fuck’s sake he’d sat through the entirety of Titanic stone-faced while the rest of the family bawled like little babies (he was sure he’d even heard a sniffle from Bruce’s direction) – yet something about the idea of Dick hating him for life just made something in his eyes itch.

He hadn’t wanted to do this – really hadn’t wanted to – but he was going to have to pull out the big guns. Dick for brains had once hung outside his window, face smashed against the pane as he happily rattled off bad knock knock jokes in ripped jeans and a ratty tee in the middle of Gotham’s worst snowstorm since ’83 for the fifteen minutes it took until Jason relented and finally let him inside. Jason sure as hell wasn’t about to strip down and risk hypothermia for big bro. No, he was about to give up something so much more important. He’d spent years building up the perfect baddass, no sass reputation. And now he was about to lose it all (because there was no way Tim wasn’t secretly recording every second of this conversation). Roy would never let him live this down for years.

Jason shuddered, took a deep breath and tried not to vomit.  

“Why did Bruce’s doctor give him mouthwash?”

He paused, looking meaningfully at Dick who reddened but stayed silent. He huffed, pushing his voice higher as he imitated Nightwing’s. “I dunno Jay, why did Bruce’s dentist give him mouth wash?”

“Because he had bat breath!” He finished dramatically, splaying fingers out in cheesy jazz hands. Dick met his gaze long enough to shoot a dirty look before he returned to glaring moodily at the floor.

“Not like that one huh? Okay, try this one. How many vigilantes does it take to change a lightbulb? None, they like it dark!”

This time Dick didn’t look up but rolled his eyes, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s Batman’s favourite part of a joke? The punchline!”

A snort rumbled in Dick’s nostrils. Irritation became horror as a hand clamped quickly over his mouth to stop the laughter threatening to tumble from it.

“What do you get if you cross Robin and a mixing machine? The Boy Blender!” Jason crowed triumphantly, smirking as Dick’s façade finally broke. All it took was one escaped giggle and suddenly the hero was folded in half in hysterics.

“C’mon Dickie,” Jason coaxed gently when the last of the man’s giggles had subsided. “Your turn.”

Dick’s expression sobered, his voice small as he mumbled “Why did Batman answer the door?”

“I dunno D, why did Batman answer the door?”

“Clark batarang.”

Yeah maybe it wasn’t that funny but Jason still howled in laughter. And it was worth it, seeing the stellar grin stretched across Dick’s face as the man puffed up, practically bubbling over with pride.

“Yunno that, was actually, a good one.” Jason huffed between breaths. He gave one last chuckle, meeting Dick’s gaze as he wiped a tear out of his right eye. His voice dropped back into its normal key.

“Look, the stuff I said? I didn’t mean it. I mean, I should’ve thought before opening my big dumb mouth.” Jason mumbled, voice husky as he scrubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah. You really should have.” Dick drawled pointedly.

Jason flinched. He wasn’t used to Dick holding his mistakes so against him. Nightwing had always forgiven, always come back with that same goofy grin, that softened I’m still here for you expression, trotting dutifully back to Jason’s door every time after he’d slammed it in the moron’s face. Seeing Dick so bitter was like looking in a mirror. A mirror Jason desperately wanted to smash. He winced. Time to pull out his trump card. Hopefully this would knock some sense back into the blockhead.  _Or push him further away,_ the more pessimistic part of his mind whispered.

“They know about the killing Dick. We all do.”

Dick reeled back like he’d just been struck. His face somehow got even paler as he blanched, eyes blinking open and closed as the button of his nose twitched like a scared shitless squirrel. “What?”

“They’ve always known idiot.” Jason scowled. “You were trained as an assassin, Dickie, what were we supposed to think? That you were their brainwashed gardener? The first thing you said to me was that I was sentenced to die. You tried to cut my head off with a fucking sword. We all assumed that I wasn’t your first contract. Killing people, it kind of comes with the job.”

“So they’ve known?” Dick repeated slowly. His eyes widened, back hitting the wall as his body slumped. “All this time?”

“I didn’t tell em, figured you’d want to drop that nuke yourself but yeah, they’ve always known.” Jason mumbles, licking his lips nervously. 

“I didn’t know, I thought if you found out-’ Dick stammered, paper white skin surprisingly green.

“It doesn't change who you are Dickie." Jason murmured softly in a tone he prayed to god sounded comforting. Hell knows he was never the warm fuzzy lets talk about our feelings one - Dick had always been the pack mule for their emotions but right now Dick was the one hurting and it was Jason's turn to step up to plate. "The swords, the sentencing to die, none of that was your fault. The Court, they’re the fucktards who did this. And right now you’re away from them and here with us. And we’re here for you. I know I may not be the best person to say that-“ Jason stopped short. He was the absolutely worst person to say that. He’d fucked Dick over just as many, if not more times than B ever had.

“You ran away, declared us all evil and tried to kill Tim three times.” Dick muttered flatly.

“Three that you know of.” Jason corrected with a sharp grin. “But that’s not the point. I may not be the best to say it but I mean it. If you ever want to grab a beer and talk about it, or grab a beer and not talk about it and just chill on a rooftop not saying anything, nothing in this godforsaken world will stop me from being there for you.”

“You were wrong, you know.” Dick murmured suddenly.

“Huh?” He said, unable to keep the confusion out of his voice.

“About Slade being the closest villain I’ve ever come to killing.” He explained before lapsing back into silence. Jason didn't push the matter. You didn't stay surrounded by emotionally constipated morons for seven years without learning when someone did and didn't want to talk about something. The look in Dick's eyes had relapsed into something eerily similar to Talon and he wasn't about to risk broken ribs on something he could probably find in one of Tim's stalker diaries. Besides, Dick was talking to him again and Jason figured it was a good a sign of forgiveness as he was ever going to get.

“What did he mean?” He demanded to Tim, arms folded and eyes lasers when the teen finally opened the door to let them out. He could tell when something was being hidden from him (probably by Bruce, that bastard) and yeah he may not be as huge on the whole we’re family we deserve to know everything about each other dynamic he still got pissed off when someone (Bruce) kept him intentionally out of the loop because someone (Bruce) didn’t trust him. Yeah he’s not interested in knowing the time and date of Damian’s school plays or the details of Tim’s sleep schedule down to the exact minute but the big stuff – like when someone dies or goes missing – that he has just as much of a right to know about as baby brat and the fill in. And when it actually happens, not on the phone a month after when Tim tells him to get his ass down to the funeral service to honour the memory of a moron who up until that point had still been infuriatingly alive in his mind. A lot of stuff has been hidden from him over the years, both as Robin because of Daddy’s major trust issues and as Red Hood (not because Bruce wanted to protect him but because he wanted to protect some fucker from him). But from the way Tim’s eyes went all rabbit in the headlights whatever secret had been kept from him this time was a whopper.

“Tim.” Jason prompts warningly, watching the boy quiver before breaking.

Tim blinked owlishly. He trembled, swaying on his feet like someone had just pulled the rug out from beneath him. His lips quirked. “Dick didn’t tell you?” His gaze slid over the spot where Dick had bounded past before his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “He uh, he killed Joker.”

Never mind Tim it was Jason’s mind short circuiting now. He froze, unable to connect Dick’s smiling, cheerful face with the image that he’d clung to so far for so long (still did); of Joker’s frozen smile, his purple suit in tatters and prone form oozing blood into some unnamed gutter. Dick had killed Joker? It didn’t make sense. Grayson was the prodigal son, the golden boy. He didn’t go round killing criminals. And certainly not Joker. That was Jason’s thing.

“What? Why?”

Tim gave a sad smile, his droopy eyes staring at Jason like they were trying to decide which flowers fitted best for his funeral. For all Jason knew maybe he was, maybe he was remembering standing all in back beside the coffin and staring at the bouquets beside the box. No one had told him the details - maybe because back then he would’ve put a bullet in their skulls before they could get within even a metre’s distance to speak. But he hoped they’d at least had hyacinths. He was sure he’d told Dick that once, when they were suspended upside down, working knives through the vines holding them in one of Poison Ivy’s lairs. Hyacinths were his favourite. 

“You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back in business!
> 
> I know it's been a long time, but things my end have been pretty hectic, what with moving into a new place, backpacking over the country and balancing social outside interactions with copious amounts of Netflix binging. But look, see? Extra long chapter to make up for all that. So uh, just please don't kill me.


	38. Kiss and Tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is slightly deviating from the canon. Well not so much as slightly deviating as extremely veering off course and the nearest cliff. Then again none of this has been anywhere near canon. But for those of you who've read The Last Laugh, well it's kind of my own spin of that.

Talon was 99% sure this is the first time either he or Richard has ever smoked. There are memories. He’d been offered before (a hand stretched out with a lighter attached, snatches of a drunken night in the shade of a nightclub door, his room in Titan’s Tower and the thought that maybe Kori would think he looked cool) but he’s sure he’d always refused. It had always been Jason’s outlet. Never his.

Until tonight.

Maybe it was because memories had been dredged back up that he’d tried so hard to shelve and forget, maybe it was because of the clap of thunder rumbling in his ears as lashes of rain pelted the top of his head (rain in Gotham isn’t that unusual but the anxiety that this particular storm brings is; unease itches under his skin, nauseating and intrusive, gripping his mind like a rabid dog, unwilling to let go). Maybe it was because he’d been forced to admit that Talon wasn’t the only monster inhabiting his body. But Dick found himself standing on the roof, stolen lighter in his hand and cigarette jammed sharply between his teeth as he looked out at the sun rising over the city. He figures he has two, three minutes tops before Tim spills the beans to Jason, and knowing his brother’s bullheadedness it’s not that hard to guess what Hood’s next course of action will be. That’s why it’s no surprise when Jason joins him, bulldozing through what had once been a door to stride in front of him, face full of as much thunder as the storm currently ravaging the sky, eyes molten and mouth a grotesque line of teeth as he barks out one word.

“Explain.”

Dick takes a long, drawn drag from the cigarette, coughing as the tobacco burns down his throat. He’s known this day had been coming since Hood’s red helmet first came off to reveal Jason, alive and glaring furiously into the camera built into Bruce’s cowl. He glances over the fuming mass of what is now Jason, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and obliges.

“It was your usual night in Gotham…”

 

_It was your usual night in Gotham. Just another night of crappy takeouts, cheesy sitcoms and punching a guy in the face to save the world. Tomorrow it would be Two Face. The next night Penguin. TonightGotham was Joker’s stage. Dick sighed as he swung across the city skyline. He really should find a new hobby - one that didn’t involve getting shot three places in the arm each time he tried to stop a nighttime robbery. Maybe scrapbooking. Alfred probably had an old photobook somewhere and Bruce definitely had enough secret photos of the three of them skulking in the corner at a Bat Burger table, still in costume from that time Dick insisted he was hungry and Robin demanded chilli dogs, and maybe it would finally prove to Jason that they were really a family-_

 

_Jason._

 

_Blood roared in Dick’s ears. His vision tinted red and suddenly his knuckles were itching for a whole new reason. It’s the first time he’s seen Joker. Well no, it’s the first time Bruce had even let him anywhere near the madman since The Incident. Dick grimaces. Again that’s not entirely accurate. B hadn’t exactly let him. In fact Bruce had only earlier this night testily ordered him away from the very place he was currently swinging towards. As far as Batman was aware Nightwing was currently scoping out Gotham National Bank after a tip off of a lowkey (and entirely made up) bank robbery. It’s not B’s usual over the top practically a whole continent restraining order paranoia. This time the fear is real. For the first time it’s built on something concrete and Dick, as much as he hates how useless it makes him feel, can totally understand why Batman had ordered Nightwing away from all of the clown’s activities, world threatening or not._

 

_He totally understands, but still not enough to actually obey. He’d never been the best at listening to what B said, not when he was Robin and certainly not now as Nightwing. He’s never been sure of why Jason had insisted he was the golden boy when his arguments with Bruce had been nearly ten times louder and his walkouts almost twenty times more dramatic, he’d always been more of a mongrel than a lapdog, god knows he’d bitten Bruce’s hand enough times when the man had replaced him._

 

_There’s that name, Jason, again. And suddenly Dick has to stop, drop down into an alley and steady himself against the wall. He practically swoons into the brick’s embrace, legs unsteady as he fights to stay upright. Green sparkling eyes and dark floppy hair stick in his mind like an open wound, festering away until the pain gives way to anger. He grits his teeth, mouth a grim line as he snaps the grapple up, the usual euphoria that comes with flying tonight lacking. Instead there’s only a growing unease. He doesn't care what B says, Batman needs backup. Joker’s dangerous, even more so when he's been dabbling with new chemicals and Dick wasn't about to just sit back and let another person die._

 

_It’s with relief that he lands silently on the rooftop of the theatre and finds the skylight still intact._

 

_That should have been the first sign that something was wrong. What Dick should have done was open coms. What Dick should have done was radio in his position and wait for Batman to come._

 

_He did neither._

 

_The clue hadn’t been that hard to figure out; the crying Melpomene plastered over the face of the still warm to the touch corpse, the laughing face of Thalia hanging above, open mouth a window to the graffiti laughter smeared in blood to the wall behind. The trail was easy, too easy, and Dick couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that tonight Joker wanted to be found. He tried not to dwell on the second thought that followed._

 

_Why?_

 

_A quick inspection reveals the all clear. Nothing has been changed or tampered with. The locks on the windows are rusted, the door that leads from the roof to the inside boarded shut. Dick tries the handle. It jiggles in his glove but doesn’t give. Dust smears the inside of his palm. No one’s used it in months. He loops back, keeping out of sight as he risks a glance over the skylight into the interior below. The room is dark, all the lights are off but he can just about make out the shape of something large on stage._

 

_The moon finally rolls out of the cloud, shadows ooze out from the rows of seats and dance up the theatre aisle’s, newly alive in the light, and suddenly the shape on stage is a dinner table and around it four chairs, each with a person slumped in their seat._

 

_There’s still no sign of Bruce but the situation has changed and Dick’s mind makes a snap decision. He glares at the window and raises a hand to his mask, switching it to night vision and searching for the glare of tripwires. He gives one last check, scanning over the room and finding no sign of Joker or any trap. The unease is still there, a jarring whisper in the back of his mind that something isn’t quite right but he ignores it, pushing the dread away as he dusts off his hands and stands, padding over to the door and testing the boards in place. It’s more than easy to slip a screwdriver out of his utility belt, fit the tool into the nails and spin each out, quietly depositing each of the freed wooden planks on the ground. It’s just as simple to pick the lock and slip through the door. Simple, silent and with no risk of broken ankles._

 

_For once he isn’t greeted by the sharp, steady fire of machine gun but instead a complete eery silence._

 

_That’s the second sign._

 

_Dick pauses halfway through the door. He should wait for Batman. He should-_

 

_He ghosts down the stairs, night vision still up, eyes scanning his surroundings like a hawk, fingers twitching, ready to draw the escrima sticks slapped onto his hips at the slightest sound or movement. The stairs take him to a split end, one corridor leading off to a set of doors on the right, the other winding to four metal steps up to a heavy crimson curtain, wood plank flooring glimmering through the holes punched into the moth eaten fabricHe’s snooped around enough abandoned theatres to recognise that he’s backstage and with a furtive glance to the corridor on the right Dick heads up the steps. Joker had never been the type to lurk and wait behind a door. He craved the attention of the spotlight far too much to ever try and skulk in a shadow._

 

_Sickness gnaws in his belly as he approaches the curtain, cautiously glancing behind him before gingerly slipping through, escrima sticks already in hand, ready to face whatever he may find on the other side._

 

_Nothing. There is no clown standing waiting, the barrel of a gun with a flag poked from out levelled at his heart. No pop of bullets or whirr of mechanism as whatever trap laid springs into life. Dick checks over the seating, the flooring, even looking up thinking that maybe Joker is in the rafters waiting to drop a sandbag on his head. But there is nothing._

 

_That’s the third._

 

_He keeps a grip of the escrima sticks and hurries over to the table at the centre of the stage. Someone had set the table, placing forks and knives and dinner plates in front of each chair. A bouquet of dead daisies clumsily plucked from the ground had been shoved into a vase and jammed into the centre. A carving knife protruded from the carcass of a roast chicken. Green goop stuck to the sides of four glasses, the tumblers disintegrated down to half by still smoking acid._

 

_And the fourth._

 

_Dick moved to the first place, spinning the chair round and reaching a hand to rip the gag off its prisoner. He stifles a string of profanities as the rag comes away, revealing a terrible smile stretched wide from ear to ear. The corpse’s eyes are dull and glazed, the skin chillingly cold even through the layer of his glove._

 

_Dick moves onto the next; a woman, blonde and middle-aged, your typical surburban housewife next to her typical husband. The gag comes off revealing the same forced smile. Someone had taken a sharpie to her eyes, crossing twin x’s over the glazed pupils. He tries to ignore the bullet hole blazed through her forehead._

 

_He crosses round to the other side of the table, dread growing as the shape of the third and fourth hostages are noticeably smaller. He has to bend down to their level. The child’s head droops down into his chest, his eyes obscured by the tumble of raven hair messily falling over his lids. When Dick moves the hair away he sees someone had taken the same sharpie to his eyes, only instead of x’s they’d drawn a crude mask. It’s either chance or some sick irony that he’s wearing a tee with Bruce’s mark stamped in bright yellow. He almost cries in relief as the boy moves, a small whimper escaping into his rag as eyes flutter open, blinking then widening as he sees his surroundings. Dick, inconspicuously, slots himself in front of the kid’s vision._

 

_“It’s okay kid, everything’s going to be fine.” Dick whispers. “You’ve heard of Batman right?”_

 

_The boy swallows thickly. Tears dribble out of his eyes as he nods._

 

_“Well Batman’s coming to save you. That’ll be a great story to tell everyone, right?” Dick forces his voice to turn sickly sweet, he knows the kid has got to be terrified right now. Sure he’s angry at Joker but the priority is keeping the boy calm. Hopefully he can sneak the kid out unnoticed before the villain even shows up._

 

_“Is this your brother?” He places a hand on the other boy’s shoulder, trying to focus on the thud of a still steadily beating pulse and not on the black hair and matching mask painted over the kid’s face. This one is older, probably a teen. Dick would place the first round fifteen, the second maybe nineteen. He pushes the detail away. It’s just coincidence. Painful, sick, coincidence._

 

_The first kid bobs his head shakily in confirmation._

 

_“Okay, well first we’re going to get you two out of here, then you two can meet Batman. Maybe he’ll even give an autograph.” Dick forces a smile onto his face as the child gives a distressed whimper. He doesn’t care what Bruce says, he’ll tell Alf about the time Bruce knocked over the priceless ming vase in the sitting room and blamed it on a freak robbery if he has to, but Batman is signing his name on two bits of paper tonight._

 

_The kid moves, leaning forward as much as he can as Dick drops to his knees and starts working through the line of rope lashing his arms to the back of the chair._

__

_Dick balks, actually jumping as the sound of horrendous, jarring laughter fills the room. At his side the boy shudders and resumes his crying. All at once the theatre’s dusty spotlights snap on, supernovas in Dick’s nightvision-enhanced eyes. He hisses, blindly pawing the mechanism in his mask off. The pain in his eyes fades and he is no longer blind. The spotlights stand tall at his back, their beams illuminating the Joker in front of him, standing in the seating, matchsticks of legs actually balancing on top of two of the velveteen chairs. Agruesome crimson smile is painted on his lips as he stands with his arms stretched up, basking in the applause of a nonexistent audience._

 

_Dick knows he hadn’t been standing there when he'd scanned the ceiling. He wonders briefly, whether the villain had been hiding under a seat, ready to pop up like an r-rated whac-a-mole when he made his grand entrance._

 

_“It’s about time,” the madman grumbles, hands dropping into his pockets as he rocks on the back of his heels. “Jeez kid i was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.” He bounded forward, jumping to the next row of seats._

 

_“But here you are.”_

 

_Another jump. Another row forward._

 

_“I didn’t think theatre was your thing Joker!” Dick shouted, trying to hide the quake in his voice, if only to reassure the still sobbing kid. He forces his hands to steady as he abandons the restraints and redraws his escrimas, reminding himself that Joker is just a man. He’s beaten him before. He can do this._

 

_“Oooh you know me, I do love a good tragedy.” Joker claps his hands excitedly, like a kid who just got told his parents are taking him to Disneyland for his birthday. Or the time when Jason had found out Bruce was enrolling him in an actual school-_

 

_He shoves the memory down angrily, storing it away in the Do Not Touch corner of his mind._

 

 _“The only dressing room you’ll get is your old cell back in Arkham.” Dick quips shakily. He shivers as instead of getting angry like he’d expected, Joker actually_ giggles.

 

_“Oh I’ve missed this.” He sings as he cracks his knuckles. “It feels like forever since we’ve had one of our little chats.”_

 

_Another row cleared. Joker was less then two metres away now._

 

_The villain rolled his shoulders, easing out invisible pains as he flashed teeth. “Been a while hasn’t it birdie? So what do you say, did ya miss yer old uncle Jay?”_

 

_“Oh i missed you.” Dick grinned, tension relaxing as he settled back into the second skin of confident saver of the day. “Missed punching the crap out of you that is.”_

 

_The insanity in Joker’s eyes sparkled. He leapt to the next row then the next, taking each one leg at a time before he was two away from the stage, then one then standing on it. He stuck the landing with a wide grin, arms up like he was an olympic gymnast just completed their routine. He ducked into a bow then stood back up straight, paused for praise, pouting when none comes._

 

_“Sheesh, tough audience tonight.”_

 

_Dick watched, muscles taut as he dabbed imaginary sweat off his brow. Predatory eyes locked with his, promising pain before the terrifying gaze wrenched away interest lost as Joker straightened his tie. Then their focus was back and suddenly Dick couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even move as Joker stared, burning through his eyes and into his soul._

 

_“Oh well, I’m sure I can make you smile somehow.”_

 

_Like a viper Joker struck, darting forward and striking out but Dick had been expecting it and he met the punch with one of his own. They both reeled back, clutching their fists with matching grimaces of pain and once more Dick was grateful for the brass knuckles hidden under his gloves._

 

_Joker grunted, glaring murder as he flexed his fingers out. “Now that’s not fair kid. Does Batsy know his precious protege is cheating?”_

 

_Dick shrugged as he edged further away from the table, trying as much as possible to keep Joker’s attention on him and away from the two children still strapped totally vulnerable to their chairs. The second boy was beginning to stir and Dick didn’t want to find out whatever the Joker thought passed for a show._

 

_He plastered a stupid, goofy grin over his lips as he crouched, legs bent apart and arms up, escrimas pointed towards Joker’s throat as he crab walked three steps further left. “I call it being prepared.”_

 

_Joker cackled, skipping one huge step left to fall in Dick’s immediate front. It’s intimidating to be so near the madman but more importantly Dick’s done his job. He mentally breathes a short sigh of relief. The kids are safe, for now._

 

_Joker scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Being prepared. I like that. It’s just a shame one of us is more prepared than the other then. You know what they say, every play is only as good as its audience.” He ends in the signature ear-splitting cackle of insanity, vindictive gaze now playfully eager. The smile on his face is entirely sadistic._

 

_Dick yells, diving forward at the same time as Joker jumps to the side, closing the distance to the table and still laughing, plucks the knife from the cage of chicken bones. He swoops down, like a vulture diving towards its dying prey, fingers closing round the youngest boy’s hair, yanking his head up with one hand as the other nicks the knife against the boy’s throat._

 

_“Oopsy daisies! Clumsy old me!” The Joker feigns distress, gasping in exaggerated horror as the knife handle slithers purposefully away from his fingers. Dick yelps, his belly dropping out as the blade pitches forward, falling nearly an inch. It’s millimetres from burying itself in the kid’s Adam’s apple before Joker regains his grip._

 

_Glassy eyes lock with Dick’s, their owner trembling in terror as a thin bead of red christens the blade edge. The contents of Dick’s stomach threaten to make a grand entrance as Joker draws an imaginary line across the kid’s neck._

 

_“Not so fast, hmm? Pops always said I had the worst butter fingers.”_

 

_Joker smirked as Dick squared his jaw and took one long, exaggerated step back._

 

_“What do you want Joker?” He asked wearily. “Say it quick, before Batman gets here and knocks it out of you.”_

 

_Dick watched, floored, as Joker burst into the strangest, and frankly most terrifying, dance he’d ever seen.The clown broke off from his sporadic jig, grinning._

 

_“No no no. Daddy Bats has gone a little off on the deep end, his love taps are a little harder than they used to be-“ Joker rubbed at his left leg as he spoke and Dick viciously hoped it was broken. “So tonight i thought we’d make this get together a little private. Invitees only. It’sjust you and me kiddo, no senior citizens coming to shut down this soiree. No Batsitter to interrupt the fun tonight.”_

 

_“I wouldn't have it any other way.” Dick growled, escrima sticks jerking in his hands as electricity crackled alive in the air. Maybe a part of him had always known that he and B were following different clues on two different trails laid by Joker, that even before he’d dropped dropped through the skylight he knew both of them were on different paths and tonight he’d never find Bruce. He wants to prove to Bruce, more importantly he wants to prove to himself, that he can do this. He needs to know that Nightwing is more than the help, that he can be the hero just as much as Batman. That if he’d been there, he could have saved Jason._

 

_You really should thank me you know.” Joker continued. “See i know you weren’t there for little Robbie and that must be killing you so i thought I’d stage this little re~in~act~ment. Between us these two are terrible actors but it’s so hard to find talent these days so i said to myself Joker old boy they’ll have to do._

 

_Come on birdboy, don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to know.” Joker wheedled, still smiling. “I could tell you if you ask. How many times i hit him with the crowbar, every tiny spot of skin I stabbed, every little vein i slashed. I know Batsy didn’t tell you. Heck, I bet he didn’t tell you the dear old kid dear old died. So whadya say bucko? Wanna know baby bird’s last words?”_

 

_The tripwire of Dick’s temper shivered and snapped and with a shriek he launched forward. Hecrashed into the Joker, knocking him away from the chair before the clown could finish the deadly arc of his arm and bury the knife into the boy’s throat. One hand fisted the first stick into the plum dinner jacket. Electricity arched through Joker’s body but the man simply giggled, seemingly in joy. Dick ground his teeth, bringing the first holding the second stick up in a clean upper cut._

 

_“That’s the problem with your generation.” The Joker complained. He spat out blood, the goblet landing at the feet of the squirming boy who screamed, the sound muffled by the gag taped over his mouth. “No appreciation for the fine arts. I did all this for you and what do i get? Not even one teensy little thank you.”_

 

_Dick cried, bellowing as Joker dug the knife into his ribs. He dropped to his knees, escrima sticks skittering away across the floor as he clawed at Joker’s wrist. The man caught his fingers with ease and Dick's mouth threw open in an inhuman sound as new electricity seared through his system. Still he forced himself to swipe at the knife but the Joker clung just as determinedly onto the weapon, twisting it deeper as Dick’s cries rattled louder in his throat._

 

_“That’s what i like to hear. You always did know how to please a villain, didn’tcha kid. Not like the other brat. No manners at all that one. Didn’t even give a tweet, not even when i shoved this little beut into his belly. Right where it is now actually. i can see why Batsy has a favourite.” Joker cooed, pushing the blade in even further._

 

_Dick gagged, choking. All air was cut off from his brain as a dress shoe replaced the hand holding the handle to crush his fingers. He was forced to tear them from out beneath the sole or risk permanent damage and he whimpered as uncontested the polished leather pressed the knife further in._

 

_Joker bent down and puffed air on his forehead. “Boo.” The clown drawled, pleased with himself._

 

_And Dick toppled over._

 

_He stared blankly at the theatre ceiling, dimly aware of the new weight settling on top of his stomach, like someone had just dumped an anvil on his chest. A foggy memory floated back, sitting on one of the cave’s med beds, an IV hooked up into his wrist, blood transfusion already in progress as Alfred gently scolded him for crying. “It’s just a little blood loss, master Richard. Barely even two pints.” The butler scolded as Bruce sat, grim-faced beside the bed, holding his hand. “If it were five we’d be worried. Six and you’d be dead.”_

 

_Distantly, Dick tried to assess how many pints of his life were now staining the stage._

 

_“Oh come on, tis just a little blood loss. The show has gotta go on.”Joker gestured round himself grandly, a poor echo of Vision Alfred. Air whistled through Dick’s teeth as the clown slapped him back to semi-consciousness._

 

_“Can’t have you dying on me, not before the big finale.” The clown muttered, tsking. “Can’t have you freeing the brats either, but what to do, what to do?” He pondered, tapping his fingers one after the other over the hole newly busted through Dick’s chest._

 

_“Oh i know!” He shouted, expression gleeful. Dick squirmed, struggling with all his might as intrusive hands crept to his utility belt, searching fingers digging through each compartment, throwing the contents over their owner’s shoulder before Joker crowed in triumph. “Eureka i’m a genius!”_

 

_There was an audible snap of metal at the same time as the needle point jammed into his skin. Dick screeched, roaring as pure adrenaline burst through his veins, yanking him roughly back into the land of the living._

 

_He grunted, using the surge of energy to form his own counter attack. Only Dick’s fist was brought up short. Metal jangled once more and the relief at still being alive quickly turned to horror as Dick realised his arm was trapped to a table leg by his very own handcuffs._

 

_Joker fondled the flower head tucked into his jacket, stroking the petals almost lovingly. Water dribbled onto Dick’s suit, before the liquid went from clear to sick mustard yellow. He howled, bucking as the acid burnt through the fabric, greedily oozing through the hole and onto the exposed skin of his leg. It wasn’t until Dick was sure that he was actually on fire that the flow of acid finally cut off._

 

_Joker whistled. “Wowee, methinks that’ll leave a mark.”_

 

_Tears blurred the edges of Dick’s vision as he writhed on the floor, knees jerking up in a slim effort to knock the body straddling his hips off. He shrieked, screaming as dark spots danced in front of his eyes. The urge to shut them was overwhelming but Dick knew if he fell asleep now he was never waking up again._

 

_“It’d been so long since I saw you, I was beginning to think you were dead. It is rather hard keeping track of all you little birds. You’re all so fragile, one teensy tiny explosion and you just drop down dead.”_

 

_Dick bellowed, this time in anger as Joker’s cackles filled his ears. He forced his uncuffed hand up, ignoring the agony that carved his mind, threatening to drag him under as his fingers formed a sloppy fist, thumb curling in as he poured all his remaining strength into one hand and smashed it into the side of Joker’s face._

 

_He felt bone give way beneath his knuckles, saw the flesh crumple under the hit. Joker let go of the knife, screaming as he clutched the bloody remains of his nose. Dick seized the opportunity, landing another punch - this time into the clown’s eye. When he withdrew his hand Joker’s bone white skin was smeared a mess of purple and crimson. He finally succeeded in dislocating his thumb enough to slip the cuffs and with a roar he thrust the now freed hand into Joker’s exposed belly._

 

_The force pushed Joker onto his feet and he swayed unsteadily until Dick threw himself up and at the clown. They crashed to the floor, Dick now on top, their roles reversed._

 

_“Well now that’s just unfair.” Joker groused, turning his face to the side and hucking up a chipped half a tooth. “Though i’d guess if Boy Blunder 2.0 had any unfinished business in the world it was learning how to do that!”_

 

_He cackled. He was still cackling when Dick held the front of his collar and slammed his head into the stage. He was still wheezing the same giggle when Dick’s fingers curled around his throat and squeezed. He was still hacking up the sound of rusted humour when Dick’s fist opened up the side of his right cheek._

 

_Dick’s fists pummelled blow after blow, raining fury down on the clown long after the cackle had turned into a gurgle then harsh breathing then silence._

 

_He screamed as he punched, lost in his fury as again and again he beat Joker, sometimes punching, sometimes slamming the head back down into the stage, but always hurting. Hurting the monster just like he’d hurt everyone Dick had ever known. The flesh beneath his fists turned into a pulpy mess, both of Joker’s eyes were held shut by the swell of bloody bruises. The man’s forehead was burst open, his lips were split in four separate places, blood dribbled down his chin from the remains of his mouth and still Dick’s fists came down._

 

_Numbly he felt arms on his shoulders, hands gripping his wrists, tearing him away from the monster. He fought against them, struggling angrily like an animal yearning against its tether. Joker still hadn’t paid enough, he needed to feel more pain, Dick wouldn’t stop now, not until the murderer had felt everything Jason had felt ten thousand times over._

 

_He was brought back to his senses with an injured yowl and suddenly Bruce was standing over him, eyes glaring down through the white lenses of his cowl, one gloved hand still hovering over the area where Dick’s cheek stung._

 

_“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!!” Bruce thundered, fury incarnate as he bore down like the apocalypse itself. His form trembled, barely clinging together as his grip dug hard enough to drill through the protective kevlar of the Nightwing suit._

 

_“WHAT YOU SHOULD HAVE!” Dick screamed into the face of his once respected mentor. Bruce finally let go, shock registered - an expression Dick thought extinct from the man’s face - but he felt no victory in causing it. Instead he broke from the hands holding him together and fell to the floor, finally breaking down and weeping. A hand gripped the gaping chasm in his stomach, his glove sticky with blood. He’d forgotten the pain in his bloodlust and now it returns with a vengeance. The room darkens like someone had just dimmed the universe’s lights. Blackness hedges the edge of his sight and again Dick has to fight to remain conscious._

 

_“He killed Jay, he took away my little brother,” Dick moaned brokenly, sobbing as his body sagged._

 

_“We don’t kill, we never kill.” Bruce admonished, furious and insistent. Behind him the two boys, both now awake, began loudly wailing. In that moment Dick had never hated him more._

 

_“Not even him? He deserved it. He’s always deserved it but now,” Dick stopped, sucking in breath as he met Bruce’s volcanic glare. “I know what i did, and i’d do it again. Any day.”_

 

 _Bruce pinched the end of his nose, exhaling. His eyes closed and when they opened again it was with the look of an angry parent scolding the wayward son who had just walked into the sitting room and fessed up to crashing the family car. "The Batmobile is outside. Alfred is already in the cave waiting with a first aid pack and IV prepared. For now, just, just get out of my sight.” Bruce spat in his finest no nonsense timbre._  The drawn line of lip and set square of jaw promised a painful consequence to any  _further argument but Dick must have been feeling especially suicidal that night as he found himself meeting the glare and snarling a refusal._

 

_“No B.” Dick hissed as he stood. He staggered, but otherwise stayed on his feet. “I can’t do this. Not anymore.”_

 

_Dick, still sobbing and only .1% conscious, drunkenly stormed past and stumbled down the stage steps before B had chance to utter any protest. He lurched down the aisle, breath sharp as he fought his way into the foyer and out the front entrance. He ripped the mask from his face, angrily throwing it into a nearby trash can as he stormed out into the night, the lash of rain pelting his shoulders numb against the fury boiling through his veins, the clap of thunder hollow in ears beneath the sheik of approaching sirens._

 

“What happened next?” Jason whispered breathily.

 

Dick flicked the butt of the cigarette into the night. He opened his eyes, meeting Jason’s for the first time since he’d begun speaking.

 

“I made it to Leslie’s. B called an ambulance. He injected adrenaline, the paramedics did the rest. Apparently they restarted his vitals, brought him back. He’s alive. He was alive enough to bomb the GPD headquarters, and hostage the mayor, and crash Bruce Wayne’s New Year party. We didn’t talk about it and we all just went on with our lives. I was benched indefinitely but that didn’t matter. I ran to Bludhaven, Bruce stayed in Gotham. We didn’t work together, didn’t even really see each other, not until Tim came along.

 

So you see Jay? I’m not the golden kid. I’m not even the silver.” Dick stopped with a bark of flat laughter. The minutes that followed crawled by at a snail's pace. It wasn't until the third had passed that Jason was sure Dick had finished. On the beginning of the fourth the hero turned his back on the roof, making as if for the door that led to the mansion's attic until Jason's body stopped him in his tracks.  The silence in his ears was more jarring than any scream could ever be after Jason had grown so used to the silky murmur of Dick's narration and he found himself filled with the growing urge to fill the gap - either of the quiet or the distance between him and his predacessor.

 

“Jesus fuck Dick. You killed for me.” Jason gazed at the man in front of him in wonder. He was entirely aware that he was probably looking at the hero like the world’s craziest fangirl right now.

 

“You killed for me.” He repeated, awestruck. In the morning light, with the rage of thunder throwing new sparkles into amber eyes, the plague of water drowning his unkempt tangles of hair down to his shoulder’s and the admission of attempted murder fresh on his cherry lips, Dick had never looked more beautiful.

 

“Yeah,” Dick smiled softly, voice distant as he ran a finger thoughtfully over the lighter’s edge. “I guess i di-mpph.”

He was cut short, unable to finish his sentence.

Dick found himself unusually silenced.

It was rather hard to speak, Talon discovered, when the vigilante’s lips were currently glued on top his.


	39. Set Fire to the Rain

One of Jason’s eyes cracked open before sliding back shut.

 

Somebody pinch him because fuck. He really was kissing Dick Grayson right now.

 

Holy incestious brothers Batman.

 

He half expected to wake up and find himself thirteen years old again and blushing, boxers impossibly tight as he lost staring match no.257 with his bedroom ceiling.

 

But no, this wasn’t the next box office hit in the cinema of Jason’s sexual fantasies. This was real. Which meant real consequences. They were probably going to have The Chat. They were definitely going to have The Chat. He’d just thrown himself onto Dick’s lips, like Mr It’s Better to Share Our Feelings wasn't going to want to talk about that. The moron would probably even start singing. And no, of course the overly paranoid to the point of drafting thirty plans on how to kill their best alien friend vigilante wouldn’t have thought to install cameras on the roof.

 

Which means Bruce is probably already on his way up with an elephant tranq gun.

 

Jason decided to forget mentally writing his last will and testament and just focus on the only thing that mattered right now.

 

The careful mapping of every detail in Dick’s mouth.

 

Dick’s surprised squeak had long cut out so the only sound was the patter of rain and pant of breath as the two of them fought for air. Jason wasn’t sure he’d find an undiscovered pocket dimension of oxygen in Dick’s mouth but that didn’t stop him from looking.

 

The lack of sound was surprisingly nerve-wracking. He faced giant man crocs that could crack his head like a peanut shell with their little pinkie on a semi-daily basis yet somehow the total silence when he finally grew the balls to do what he’d wanted ever since he’d first seen Dick’s ass squeezed into spandex (and what a fine sight that was) still had him scared shitless.

 

It’s both the most amazing and terrifying moment of his life. He was kissing Dick Grayson. Honest to God, Dick motherfucking Grayson. On a rooftop, in the rain, in the middle of a thunderstorm. He groaned. Since when had his life become one of those mushy romances Dick had always guilt-tripped him into watching?

 

Then the thought is gone, lost in a haze of ecstasy and euphoria because he’s living out his fantasy for the last eight years. He’s learned enough from his two lives to know never to look a gift horse in the mouth (or think about the overwhelming possibility that he’s going to get his heart broken in the next five minutes when Dick inevitably rejects him).

 

Which is definitely going to happen. As soon as this is over Dick’s going to say he can’t stand the sight of him, he’s going to get kicked out the mansion and only ever see Nightwing from the wrong side of a jail cell. But until Dick explicitly says the words Jason can just close his eyes and paint a pretty picture in his mind; one where at the end Dick falls into his arms laughing instead of fleeing from them screaming.

 

He figures he has maybe 2minutes before he passes out from lack of oxygen. Three tops before Dick finally decides enough is enough and knees him in the gut. The universe could end in those three minutes and for once Jason wouldn’t be first in line fighting to save it. He’d kissed Dick. He could finally die happy.

 

This method of shutting his superior up was surprisingly effective. The way he’d done it; charge in first, think about the life changing consequences later, had meant the man hadn’t had chance to get a word in edge ways.

 

 

His head is fuzzy, his mind is muggy and he’s pretty sure if he opens his eyes they’ll be hazy. All signs point out to a 100% chance of passing out. Jason thinks it’s maybe been seconds, maybe been minutes but either way Dick hasn’t pulled away yet and that’s gotta be a good sign, right? Maybe, just maybe. Jason can’t help but feel a little hopeful that he’s not the only one enjoying the moment.

 

Dick’s mind was a mess. You could try and ask him what he was thinking but right now his mind had hung an ‘on break, call back later’ sign on its front door and promptly sprinted away to the airport to catch the next flight to Barbados. And frankly he wasn’t sure when it would be returning. Nevermind that he was kissing Jason right now (holy cow he was kissing Jason right now). Nevermind that Bruce was going to kill him (if Damian didn’t first). Nevermind that it was raining and there was a high chance he was catching pneumonia if he stayed out here any longer. He was kissing Jason. And kind of….enjoying it.

 

More than kind of.

 

Dick tried to shut the thought down but it was true.

 

This was _Jason._ The kid he’d first taken train surfing. The spotty teen he’d helped coax through the worst acne had to throw. The little boy who’d run behind him in tiny yellow shorts, _Robin_ , the baby bird that had fallen flat on his ass when he tried to land after jumping his first building.

 

This was _Jason_. The kid who’d come back to life zapped by the puberty fairy godmother. Who’d returned from the dead a solid three inches taller with six packs and muscles on top of muscles. Jason, alpha male, possessive, aggressive, protective, dominating, caring, violent, sweet Jason. The man who he’d found himself staring at across the room more than once. 

 

Jason as a kid had been adorable. Jason as a man was hot.

 

Dick groaned. He was ashamed to admit he didn’t know whether from self-loathing or lust. Why was he hot?

 

He was at war with himself over what to do. Every rational part of him screamed that he should shove the other away, make an excuse, stomp on Jason’s foot, simply run away to his room and try and forget this ever happened. Anything as long as it stopped him from locking lips with his adopted brother.

 

They were family. They were more than family, they were brothers. This was wrong. A million arguments lived and died on his tongue in that one single moment. All of them faded, blown out of the water in an instant by one single guilt ridden confession that he couldn’t ignore.

 

He liked it.

 

More than liked it. This; Jason’s lips crashing on his, mouth chasing his own like they’re long lost lovers reunited after centuries apart,it feels _right_. And suddenly Dick doesn't want to pull away. So he does the opposite. He ignores the angry screaming voice in the back of his head (it sounds a lot like Bruce) and presses closer, eagerly opening his mouth in an open invitation Jason can’t possibly misread.

 

He wants this.

 

He can tell Jason’s nervous. The man is a bundle of nerves jumping at each of Dick’s movements. Jason’s hand had twined in the front of Dick’s waterlogged t-shirt at the start of the kiss, trapping him in close like Jason expected him to run off screaming. The kiss is a dying man’s. It’s desperate. In a good way though, like Jason had been waiting for this moment and now it’s here he can hardly believe it’s real and Dick has to wonder exactly how long the guy has had these feelings. (And kick himself for not sooner realising that he’s in love with Jason).

 

And suddenly everything makes sense.

 

The constant urge to touch, the rage that twists his mind whenever anyone else so much as looks Hood’s way. Jason is possessive about him, but he’s just as possessive about Jason.

 

He likes Jason.

 

Maybe even more than likes him the same way Jason maybe more than likes him.

 

He’d mistaken the feelings, written them off as brotherly love, but this was different to the affection he felt towards Tim and Damian. He’d smiled and patted Damian on the back when the kid got an A on his science report. He’d listened without complaining when Tim launched through his Wayne Industries presentation for the fifth time that night. He’d almost ripped a girl’s organs out when she’d smiled at Jason over the counter.

 

He’s pretty sure some other him in a different universe (one where he and Jason hadn’t been such morons and had actually sacked up and talked about their feelings) is sarcastically clapping right now. Stranger things have happened. He can even almost hear the it’s about time idiot on the other him’s lips as a box of nonexistent popcorn is thrown in disgust at his head.

 

He can’t believe he’d been so stupid. He’s supposed to be good at this kind of thing. It’s not like he hasn’t heard what the others say; sure they might think they’ve been stealthy about it but he’d been brought up by the Bat, his middle name may well have been unseen eavesdropping ninja. So yeah, he knows he has a reputation as a playboy. And that Zee thinks yoga pants were invented solely to hug his butt. And that most of the super community (well pretty much all of them except Bruce) had their own bets on his preference for his partners' gender. It’s funny that everyone thinks of him as this smooth talking suave gentleman because to be honest, he’d never really had a clue. He’d trip over his words when talking, half his pickup lines began with ‘um’ and somehow walking a tightrope thirty metres above the ground was fine but put him in front of Kory and ask him to walk from his room in Titan’s Tower to the kitchen and suddenly he was stumbling over two left footed feet like a swan that had just escaped B’s wine closet.

 

So he likes Jason. In a way that probably isn't family friendly (definitely isn’t family friendly, Dick decides as Jason’s tongue swirls aggressively round the roof of his mouth and suddenly the grainy outline of Taurus in the sky isn't the only set of stars he's seeing).

 

Dick moans, back arching as Jason growing in confidence, tangles his other hand around Dick’s hips, pressing his mouth harder against Dick’s as he pulls him in closer and Dick melts into the touch, pressing back just as hungrily as his hands lower from where they had been about to shove his brother off and instead settle around Jason’s hips.

 

Jason jerks and gives his own squeak of surprise as Dick’s front teeth drag across soft upper lips, nibbling slightly before biting down hard enough to draw blood. Jason didn't know he was even into pain but apparently he is because he nearly loses it when Dick breaks the kiss and pants, tongue snaking out to lap up the blood he’s just spilled. He has chance to gulp down one shaky breath and then suddenly Dick’s mouth is back clamped over his.

 

Jason’s kissed a lot of people but this time it’s different. For one thing Dick isn’t some nameless drunk chick on a nightclub dance floor. For another some random stranger isn’t about to slug him in the face for macking on his girl.

The moment is pretty much damn near perfect and Jason had just about decided he’s died and gone to Heaven when Tim clears his throat and coughs, loudly.

 

“I’d followed Jason to make sure he didn’t push you off the roof-“ the again went unspoken - “But i can see everything is in order so i’ll just be going. You two might want to knock it off for now though, I saw Damian on the way and he is not happy.” Tim’s face scrunched into an unhappy mess. He tapped his foot impatiently, coughing again when his entrance continued to go ignored.

 

“Or you can both ignore my brilliant advice and get murdered by our delightful psychopath of a baby brother. Well I tried.”

 

He’d done his best. Warning delivered he threw up his hands, turned on his heel and left the two lovebirds to it, muttering about suicidal morons beneath his breath.

 

The burning in Jason’s lungs finally became too much and he was forced to pull away - regretfully. A pang of loss settled in his chest, the feel of Dick’s mouth on his already missed.

 

“Hey.” Jason breathed dizzily, his legs wobbling like he’d just stepped off the world’s most extreme rollercoaster. He took a hungry breath, eyes fixing on Dick’s at the exact moment their lids fluttered open, a roll of thunder flashing in the iris. He bit his lip, unable to help noticing he was still close enough to Dick for their noses to be almost touching.

 

“Hey.” Dick echoed in a low whisper. He smiled shyly, biting the inside of his cheek as he blushed. “So uh, how long’s that been going on?”

 

Jason blinked. Twice. “A while. You?”

 

“A while.” Dick parroted, face flaming.

 

Jason licked his lips, suddenly nervous. “We should uh, get inside.” He managed. By some miracle it even came out half intelligible.

 

He reluctantly relinquished his hold on Dick’s tee and thumbed towards the door. “I don’t wanna find out if super soldiers still catch colds.”

 

“Yeah, i suppose we should.”Dick drawled, letting the sentence hang. Both stayed exactly where they were, still gazing into the other’s eyes, oblivious to the storm still raging in full swing around them.

 

Jason had to actually bite his tongue to stop the cheer of victory when Dick’s fingers snaked over his own, their flesh freezing yet at the same time burning, and the man dragged him, swinging their still joined hands between them, inside.

 

…

 

What happened next seemed to pass in a blur.

 

By some stroke of luck Bruce hadn’t been watching his two former sidekicks shove their tongues down each other’s throat. Apparently the storm had knocked out the cameras, or so Tim said when he passed Jason in the hall en route to Dick’s room. He bumped their shoulders purposefully, canines flashing in a wicked grin as he caught Jason’s eye.

 

“You owe me.” He murmured before briskly moving on, leaving Jason to stare after him, wondering exactly what he’d done to be left in debt to the devil.

 

After a completely one-sided conversation Dick decided to move his things back into Jason’s room. Barely five minutes after the agreement had been reached and Jason was yanking shirts off hangers and throwing them onto the steadily growing mountain on the bed.

 

“It’s a shame, I admit I’ll miss his….company.” Slade exaggerated a sigh. “I’d grown used to his chirps, I’m sure you already know, he does sing so beautifully in bed.”

 

Slade, watching straight-faced from where he was leaned against the wall, sneered lewdly. A minute curl in the corner of his lips was the only sign the man was absolutely seething inside.

 

Dick stared, openmouthed as Jason dropped the bundle of clothes he’d been carrying, strolled over and sucker punched the merc square in the jaw in easily one of his highlights of the year.

 

That same evening Jason curled his hands over Dick’s belly, pecked Dick goodnight on the forehead and closed his eyes. For the first time that week he slept like a baby.

 

The next morning he woke up to Dick’s face inches from his own. Jason hadn’t thought it possible that anyone could look good with bed head at 3am but Dick looked more ethereal than ever. The glossy mane falling clumsily over the pillow was a halo framing his face, the long lashes fanning Dick’s eyes two gorgeous butterflies shifting their wings as they perched on his lids. Dick’s mouth was puckered, lips burnt a glossy pink that could easily put any sunrise to shame. His flesh, whilst bone white, was shockingly similar to the kind of china dolls Jason had seen stored in the mansion’s attic and it was only by the gargantuan snores rumbling in the back of Dick’s throat that he knew the man was still alive and not some lifeless masterpiece carved from marble.

 

Jason gave a contented sigh before closing his eyes and fading back into unconsciousness.

 

Dick was finally back where he was meant to be.

 

Next to him.

 

With some additional persuasion Tim agreed not to inform Damian of the scene he walked in on the night before and Jason, tech cupboard a little emptier and down one second favourite biker jacket, got to live for another week. (Proof if ever there was that Timothy Drake will always be the most diabolical criminal genius in all the city).

 

Tim’s lips were sealed. The real problem was keeping Dick at arm’s length in front of the rest of the family.

 

Jason became familiar with stumbling out of bed each morning, barely making it out alive as he batted Dick’s hands away from his hips. Forget owls and bats, you’d think the man was half octopus. Dick was a deadly combination of cuddle addict and master puppy dog eye-er. Their late and dishevelled appearance, messy hair and purple neck blotches raised many an eyebrow at breakfast, but so far nothing further than that.

 

He could tell Damian was suspicious but the kid couldn’t act without any proof to back those suspicions up so for now he was safe. Tim’s silence, while annoyingly costly was proving to be equally as beneficial. And Bruce, whilst known to many as the world’s best detective, was surprisingly clueless to the two sons secretly hooking up in his house.

 

More time passed. Jason spent the day shrugging Dick’s arms off him only to fall into them no sooner had their bedroom door shut each night. He’d always pegged Goldie for a surefire submissive but he could understand why Dick had to be the one in control, to know that he was the one dictating how far they went. That he could stop the whole thing at any time.

 

Jason had always been the dominant one before. He’d never bowed his head or let himself get roped into cuddles. Turns out he liked it. Turns out he liked anything if it was Dick doing it.

 

He didn’t push for sex and Dick never asked. He could understand that too. What Dick had gone through, he could understand if he never wanted to open up that way ever again. So it was just kisses and cuddles, heads rested on shoulders in stolen moments when no one was watching, hands wrapped together under the secrecy of the kitchen table, thumbs ghosted over lips and heads tipped back against tree bark in the furthest corner of the yard.

 

And it was _special_.

 

With every day that passed Jason could feel himself falling further and further until there wasn’t anywhere left to fall.

 

He was hopelessly, inconceivably in love with Dick Grayson.

 

Slowly, the mansion started feeling like home again. Winter turned to Spring and with the new year a new feeling of safety. The Court of Owls became nothing but a danger in the back of their minds and before long their quarantine had been lifted and Jason was strapping holsters to his thighs as the corner of his eye watched Tim struggle to kick his bike into life. There was a knack to it. One that Jason hadn’t seen fit to share after being co-erced into renting out his baby (only just recovered from the used car dealership) or start organising his second funeral.

 

“Jesus ‘wing I’ve got it.” He grouched, slapping away Dick’s fingers.

 

Nightwing, already fully suited up, was currently all over Jason’s helmet, hands working at his neck either in an effort to activate or deactivate the lock. Jason had his answer three seconds later at the exact moment the visor slid up. Tim made a retching noise in the back of his throat, miming shoving his finger inside his mouth as Dick’s lips swept over Jason’s cheeks, pecking light kisses over any exposed skin. Jason, hearing the patter of Damian-sized footsteps, panicked, struggling to push the vigilante off him. He knew exactly what would happen if they were caught. Dick, on the other hand, apparently didn't know the definition of the word discreet.

 

Jason shoved the serial PDA offender off him, feigning a cocky smirk as Damian strode down the last step. He had to stifle a laugh as Robin strapped his gauntlets on in record time.

 

“Richard informs me it is this country’s warpaint.” Damian sniped waspishly but Jason didn’t care for his excuses. He’s pretty sure warpaint isn’t pink. Or glittery. Still, he can emphasise with the kid. Only yesterday it’d been him shoving his hands in his pockets to hide the red nail polish Dick had insisted on applying.

 

Dick gazed mournfully as the helmet slid back over Jason’s head before kicked puppy eyes turned sly. For more than the first time Jason found himself regretting sharing the security codes with Dick. Makeout sessions with your secret lover was hot. Getting caught and subsequently killed by your psychotic younger sibling not so much.

 

Tim’s lips rolled back over his teeth though any emotion snapped quickly out of existence as Bruce descended the steps to join his son. Both in full costume and staring concernedly at Dick.

 

“You’re sure you’re ready for this chum?” Bruce asked. The universe and Jason did a double take. Had Bruce Wayne just tried to be a responsible parent? Jason was half tempted to phone up Circe and ask if she’d unleashed a swarm of flying swine on the world.

 

From the backline Tim stuck up five fingers. _Pay up bitch_ he mouthed, grinning smugly.

 

Jason scowled but stiffly nodded. He’d thought he’d had that win locked down. Bruce hadn’t used that name in years.

 

“The field isn’t any place for still recovering victims. You don't get over trauma like yours in a month.”

 

“I’m fine.” Dick hissed, voice turning sharp.

 

“A single moment of hesitation could very easily cost a lif-“ Bruce continued, seemingly oblivious to the pain he was causing his first son.

 

“I said **I’m fine!** _’”_ Dick screamed shrilly, going from calm to catatonic at the flip of a switch. 

 

And moment ruined. Wow, that was almost ten seconds. Still, any longer and Jason would have to think that a Bat had gone dimension hopping again.

 

“No one will formulate any negative opinion if you are not well enough to participate Richard.” Damian added evenly, glaring around the room as if daring anyone to disagree.

 

Translation: Damian speak for i’m worried about you but i’m too arrogant to say it. Well what did you know, the spawn had a human heart after all.

 

Dick looked as if he were about to break into tears. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His head shot up and he offered a grateful slim smile as Jason rubbed his back encouragingly.

 

“I can do this Bruce. I need to do this. Any longer cooped up here and I’m going to _die_.” He voiced, stricken. “Besides, people have noticed Nightwing’s absence. Crime rates are up, Bludhaven is a mess, if people don’t see me soon they’ll riot. I know you won’t let me go back there yet but please, just let me patrol Gotham. Damian and Tim are here, and Jason won’t leave my side, not for a single moment. I need to let guys like Blockbuster know i’m still around to take them out. People will get hurt if you stop me B.”

 

“Can you blame me?”Bruce interrupted. His eyes were glassy he pulled the cowl from his head. The whole world slid to a stop when Jason realised they were tears. “The last time I let you go I lost you.” Bruce’s expression screwed, the mask slipping and suddenly all Jason saw standing in Batman’s place was a sad, lonely man who didn't want to lose his son.

 

“What if that happens again? What if i’m not there to stop them? Again. What if I let you down like I let the rest of you down?” Batman continued, his voice as damaged as the polished veneer he’d always hidden behind. Jason could only stare as the Bat in front of him broke. “I’ve put so many measures in place, I’ve sat in this Cave for hours pouring over security footage rather than being where i should have been, spending time with my sons. And still I’ve gotten nowhere. All that time wasted, all those bonds broken, and for what? All I’ve found is that damn nursery rhyme!”

 

Wordlessly Dick stood from where he’d been hunched over. He crossed the room in three seconds, and pushed his head onto Bruce’s shoulder, burying his face into the armour and wrapping his hands around his father’s back before Batman had the chance to escape.

 

Bruce shuddered, lost between staying or fleeing before giving in. He half collapsed into Dick, one hand rising to fist the back of his son’s curls as the other clung onto his back, desperately clenching the kevlar like he was worried Dick was about to vanish into smoke at any moment.

 

“You’ve been looking for the Court.” Dick hiccupped into Bruce’s shoulder.

 

“I thought I could find them. I didn’t want to worry you, you three were all so _happy_. I didn’t want to ruin that. I’m, I’m _sorry._ ” Dick sniffled as Bruce’s voice broke.

 

“I know I’m not the best parent.” Bruce cut off, glaring as Tim stifled a snort. “But I’ve always had you threes best interests at heart. I also know that at times i can come across as stubborn, selfish or stupid-”

 

“huff-Understatementofthecentury”Jason coughed into a fist.

 

“But what I’ve done I’ve done to protect you. Or, i thought i was protecting you. I see now that you may not have viewed my actions in the same way.”

 

“You’ve been a dick.” Jason said flatly.

 

Tim looked at the floor, slowly turning red. “What Jason means is that you haven’t always been agreeable-“

 

“No Todd is right.” Damian spun to face his father, announcing gravely. “You have been the largest of dicks.”

 

Bruce bowed his head, resignation written in his eyes. “I just pray that you can forgive me.”

 

The sound of Dick’s fingers on Bruce’s back was loud enough to startle the closest cave-inhabiting bats into an abrupt relocation. Dick playfully knocked his shoulder into Bruce’s, his lips split open in signature disarming smile.

 

“It’s good B, nothing a few rounds of Monopoly won’t fix.”

 

"Aw man, sorry Dickie, the board got lost. Maybe we can try Clue?" Jason suggested with a sly glance towards Tim.

 

"Mmm about that, I found it. You'll never believe where." Dick mused. "Someone had thrown it in the trash!"

 

"Wow, the trash?!" Jason echoed incredulously. "You don't say? How could it have possibly ended up there?" He inquired loudly. 

 

He swallowed a smile as behind him Tim spluttered, nearly choking.

 

....

 

Alfred's shift did not stop simply because the sun chose to go down. No, every day he was tasked with a long list of duties and the decision of daylight to hand its notice in and be off into the night would not prevent him from completing them. Master Jason had voiced concerns for his door hinges, Master Timothy had mentioned the kitchen microwave to be in need of repair and Master Damian had seen fit to disarm the garden topiaries of their heads. Again. Furthermore the third sitting room's fireplace needed sweeping, the day's waste to be disposed, the library's ceiling lightbulb to be replaced and the hall chandelier to be dusted. With that in mind Alfred set out in a rather purposeful gait towards the sitting room. 

 

He raised a brow at the sight of the four still costumed heroes crowded round the board on the floor, but said nothing, silently easing the door shut before he could be noticed. He pasted a demure expression over his affectionate smile and strolled off in the direction of the kitchen to re-restock the cupboards Master Dick had no doubt already ransacked. 

 

"That'll be another thousand please," Damian announced pleasantly, holding out his hand expectantly.

 

Bruce sighed but obediently handed over the wad of notes, picking the dice up from off the board and passing them over to Tim who was, by some miracle, for once in the lead, possessing the most properties and with a hefty stack of pink and green resting at his knee. Damian was in second, with what Nightwing had dubbed 'Death's Row' proving near fatal to almost all of them, except Dick, who was sitting rather smugly in third and had somehow managed not only to avoid all of Damian's hotels but also consistently kept landing on free parking which meant even though he had no completed streets (after trading any opportunities to own one rather stupidly to Damian) he was sitting on a safe stack of hundred bills. Jason had all the stations but was near bankruptcy after falling foul of one of Tim's grander properties which left Bruce bringing up the rear. Jason had never thought it possible that anyone could play Monopoly and end up with no property to their name but somehow Bats had managed it. He'd also rolled all manner of numbers only for to the same conclusion - to land on each of their highest paying properties every lap of the board.

He'd never seen anyone playing so badly. And yet as he looked around he saw Damian was smirking, Tim was grinning and Dick was mid-laugh as Tim's counter plunked down onto free parking that Dick had just emptied out two turns before.

 

Surely even Batman couldn't rig Monopoly? Right?

 

...right? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw look, Bruce finally accepted that Batman always needs his Robins.
> 
> And if all of you think this is a sharp 180 to what I've written him before, just remember, this guy has now spent 3months trying to find the Court of Owls only to come up with empty air, he also knows that the Court are yet to make a move to take back Dick, that Slade is in his house but he can't do anything about it or the man will reveal the deal they made to the family and has had to deal with the knowledge that all 3 of his sons for all this time have been resenting and even hating him.
> 
> He's scared to let Dick go on patrol because he thinks that'll make him a target but doesn't want to voice this so tries to force logic to convey his point, but everything becomes too much and with all of the above going on, finally breaks down.
> 
> Plus he's Bruce Wayne. I think we all know the guy is a little emotionally unstable.


	40. Chapter 40

It takes precisely three days before Jason’s head is back on the chopping block. Three days, a nosey vigilante and a not as deserted as first thought darkened alley. Dick hadn’t answered his comms, Damian had got worried, Dick was called Boy Hostage for a reason. So like any reasonable little brother worried about big brother would have done, he’d hacked Batman’s systems, tracked the gps on Nightwing’s suit to the hero’s last known location, abandoned his patrol route to run off after him and dropped down from the fire escape at the exact moment Dick’s tongue plunged down Jason’s throat. What followed wasn’t pretty. Fists were slung, insults traded and wing dings thrown. The only reason Jason wasn’t currently comatose was down to Tim’s intervention. Who had seen Damian run off and had the foresight to bring a a crap load of painkillers and a bottle of pepper spray. Which he'd used on Damian. Repeatedly. Apparently there was still some festering resentment between the two because Jason had never seen Tim so smug as he was when standing over a Damian bawling, rolling on the floor and clawing over his puffy, reddened eyes. The teen finishing zip tying their brother upside down to the ledge was practically glowing.

 

“You should get out of here.” Tim suggested, nimbly jumping back just in time as Damian’s teeth snapped empty air.

 

Jason took one look at the trained trussed up like a turkey assassin snarling every death threat imaginable, snatched Dick’s hand and hightailed it.

 

The next morning Jason woke to find the word ‘harlot’ burnished in red marker over his forehead. Dick just laughed.

 

“He’s just a kid, he’ll get over it.” Dick giggled, reaching an arm out to capture Jason’s waist and pull him back into bed at the same time as Damian leapt out of the closet.

 

“He’ll get over it.” Dick repeated stubbornly twenty minutes later, a sympathetic look in his eye as he set Jason’s dislocated shoulder back into place.

 

Spoilers. Damian hadn’t.

 

Neither had Kory. Someone had apparently taught the Tamaranian the wonders of telecommunication, probably Roy, the shithead because Jason’s cell hadn’t stopped blowing up all week. Kory was pissed, pissed enough to leave seventeen angry voicemails at least. Something about not sharing his attraction to her ex and cheating in their games of kiss, marry, kill. Roy had already had to fetch the fire extinguisher after she’d set fire to their apartments’ curtains. Twice.

 

It shouldn’t have surprised him how fast word of Grayson being off the market travelled. By the end of the week nearly the entire cape community knew. Bets had been cashed in, Zee and Artemis and other female hopefuls had apparently gone into mourning and more than a few of Dick’s male associates had turned up at the mansion’s door, drawling about “been far too long’s” and “catch up drinks”. Jason had had to threaten the garden hose, and actually fetch it before Wally had left.

 

Tim was finding the whole thing hilarious, Damian was plotting murder and Bruce, for once in his life, had been surprisingly good at something that wasn't being the world’s smartest moron. Maybe he wasn’t totally on board with it being Jason, but he had accepted that there was a guy - and asked both of them to talk to him if anyone gave them a problem for it. He’d known Dick had been terrified of coming out to the family and that it was B’s reaction he was dreading most of all. For the first time since coming back to Gotham, Jason had felt respect for his former teacher. Although that quickly faded when Bruce had pulled him aside for a lecture on being safe when Dick had left, which had been mortifying. If ever there was a time for Two Face to blow up a bank it was then, butas hard as he wished no Bat signal blew up in the sky which meant Jason was forced to listen to Bruce drone on and on about the intricacies of fucking his ward safely. When Bruce had asked him to stay but sent Dick away he’d been expecting the stay the hell away from my son talk, not a pat on the back and a lecture on the existence of condoms. Either Bruce actually approved of them dating, or he’s just as relieved as Jason that Dick isn’t jumping back into bed with Deathstroke.

 

Speaking of, there was no better feeling than trotting round the mansion, Dick’s claiming hickies etched all over his shoulder for the eyes of a murderous Slade. (Okay, almost no better feeling, Jason conceded, biting back a moan, the side of his face pushing further into the pillow as he threw himself gratefully into the mattress’s embrace.) Patrol had been murder and all that had been getting him through the last seven hours spent zip-tying vandals' wrists and hanging the worst of Bruce’s rogue gallery the city had to offer from streetlights for the cops to find was the thought of a warm bed and a belly to wrap his arm round.

 

“I still can’t believe Bruce has a villain called Condiment King.” Jason grumbled to the duck feathers. “Alf had just had this washed. God, he’s gonna kill me.” He closed his eyes, trying to focus on anything but butlers running through the mansion halls brandishing bread knives. “You coming babe?”

Dick, less enthusiastic, lagged behind. He’d been quiet all night. Which wasn’t worrying, the family had pretty much accepted by now Dick was just a whole lot less talkative than he used to be. What was worrying was that he hadn’t even passed one joke, not even when mayonnaise grenades had exploded all over Jason’s beloved leather jacket, splattering him head to toe in ghostly white gloop. Jason had been mortified, Tim had been beside himself, even Damian had stifled a giggle behind his hand. Dick hadn’t even cracked a smile.

 

It had been two minutes now and Dick still wasn’t snuggled against his side. The bed was suddenly a whole lot colder than Jason remembered it. After a minute of tug of war between sleep and consciousness he forced his head up, eyes frowning when they found Nightwing perched on the bed’s end rather than in it beside him, head in his hands as his shoulders trembled. Sobs hiccupped in the back of his throat and even in the night’s gloom Jason could see well enough to pick out the tear tracks staining Dick’s cheeks.

 

“What’s eating you, pretty bird?” Jason murmured, covers falling away from his chest as he shimmied down the bed to wrap his arms around his… boyfriend. (It had been a month since the night on the roof, a month since Jason had kissed Dick in the rain and thunder, a month since they’d become official and he still wasn’t used to calling him that. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.)

 

“Nuthin’s wrong. I’m fine.” Dick mumbled shakily through his tears.

 

“Bullshit.” Jason said flatly. “Something’s obviously up, you’ve been quiet all night. C’mon baby, i want to help you, but i can’t do that if you don’t let me.” He coaxed, stamping down on his anger as Dick’s crying spiked. He thought for a moment. “Is it Slade?”

 

If it was Jason would be having a nice long chat with the merc. With fists. And maybe stunguns. He’d already got one good hit in (A fond memory he thought back on often whenever the villain did something exceptionally annoying) but he’d happily accept any reason for a second. He could see why Dick had chased after the man so doggedly when he was younger. Punching Wilson was surprisingly addictive.

 

Dick cautiously shook his head.

 

“Bruce?” The name came out sharply. Huh, obviously still some residual anger issues there. Sure maybe he wasn’t going out of his way to kill the guy anymore but that didn’t mean Daddy Bats still didn’t annoy the crap out of him.

 

Again, Dick shook his head.

 

“Damian?” Jason tried.

 

The little brat had been even more of a hellspawn than usual lately. Yeah, his head was still attached safely to his shoulders, but Jason seriously doubted that was down to any play on Damian’s part. No kill rule still secure in place, that didn’t stop the monster from doing everything in his possible power to make Jason’s life hell. It’s become a daily routine to walk into to the kitchen to the backing track of Tim’s guffaws, spin and find someone’s slashed a hole in his trousers right over his ass. He’s lost track of the number of times he’s found his gun stash spray painted. After the fifth time he’d just given up replacing them. If criminals are curious why Red Hood’s entire armoury is neon pink they want to live enough to know not to ask. One time he’d walked in on the kid and he swears the devil had an actual voodoo doll of him (twist of hair, leather jacket and everything). He just knows the brat was poking it with a fork. It’s just coincidence that he comes away from the next patrol with a black eye and stab wound. Dick doesn’t believe him but he swears he even saw the bastard sprinkle salt over the bandages before passing them to Alfred.

 

“S’not, s’not Damian.” Dick managed through his now rapid breathing. Jason rested his head on Dick’s shoulder, gently pressing his fingers over Dick’s right hand and easing it away from his face before he could claw half it off.

 

“You can tell me.” He encouraged softly. “Whoever hurt you, i’ll make sure they hurt ten thousand times more. Was it Tim?” He ventured hopefully after a pause.

 

“Wasn’t anyone in the family.” Dick rasped.

 

“Then who?” Jason asked, trying to sound like a supportive boyfriend and not a disappointed spirit of vengeance who thought they’d just been given free reign to go ape shit on the fucker who crashed their bike into a brick wall.

 

Dick remains silent and Jason swallows a frustrated growl. He knows that look. It’s Dick’s I’ll jump in front of a bullet so you don’t get hurt look. And it means that he’s not going to be told squat. Not until he’s crouched over Dick’s bleeding out body digging that same fucking bullet out of the cavity in his chest.

 

“Fine don’t tell me.” Jason snapped. “Just-“ His voice softened when Dick flinched. “Just come to bed kay?”

 

Dick gave a muted nod but otherwise stayed exactly where he was. Jason sighed. He needed to sleep but he needed to know that Dick was okay more. “At least take the costume off,” He pleaded, drawing back to run his fingers over the kevlar’s protective plating adorning Dick’s back. “Alf will have an aneurism if he sees you in it up here.”

 

Dick let out a long, low breath. “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re not, you?” He mumbled at last in a hushed whisper. “Like, you’re someone completely different living in a stranger’s body and that everything you’re doing, everything you’re saying, is all wrong?”

 

“Uh, no. Because I’m not some rescued superhero with all their previous life’s memories removed.” Jason teased lightly. Dick’s eyes glassed over, staring at something in the distance and Jason immediately felt the sharp sting of guilt. He gave a sort of cough that _wasn’t_ a distressed squeak, voice rusting as emotions swelled.

 

“But the whole in a stranger’s body thing?” He added hurriedly. “Yeah I get that. Coming back to life was hard. Being dead and then not being dead, it fucks you up. And when I woke up, after the Pit, I didn’t feel like me for a long time. A really long time. Longer than four months time.” Dick smiled ruefully as Jason clarified pointedly .

 

“You’ve been through a lot, Dick.” His voice softened. “It’ll take a while for thing’s to start feeling right again, but you’re still you.” He slowly took Dick’s hand into his, joining them and holding their linked hands level with Dick’s line of sight “And I’m still me. Now it’s 4am, I’m about to pass out. We’re getting into bed, we’re going to sleep and if you snore I swear to God you will be getting thrown out the window, capiche?”

 

“Capiche.” Dick parroted, a small smile sliding over his features as he let Jason drag him, costume and all, into bed. 

 

…

 

“Father, Grayson, Drake.” Damian tilts his head to each as he enters the kitchen. At the table Todd makes a small noise of discomfort but he is quickly silenced by a sharp look from Richard.

 

“Tcch.” Damian grunts, pretending that his annoyance is directed at the chair that had suddenly gotten in his way, and not at the fact that if Richard’s arm should be curled around anyone’s waist it should so obviously be curled around _his_. It was ludicrous that Todd suddenly be the favoured when the Grayson from before had always pampered him the least. Damian would never admit it but he secretly missed the days when Tim and Father received a sleepy nod, he ambushed into a five second hug and Todd was out of all their thoughts and far far away squatting in some disgusting hovel. He was not _jealous_. He was simply…looking out for his elder brother. Todd’s fraternising would only be temporary. He would soon move onto some other whore and poor Richard would be left behind heartbroken. His mind would not be on mission and he would get shot the next time he went on patrol and it would all be Todd’s fault. Father would fall into depression and sack his Robin because suddenly vigilantism was ‘too dangerous’ and then Damian would never achieve his rightful legacy and become the Batman. All because Todd’s indecent hips dared to invade Richard’s hands.

 

“Morning Dami,” Richard practically sang as he poured a landslide of Captain Crunch into his bowl. Damian skewed his nose and tried not to gag. Out of everything that made it past amnesia and reprogramming, of course it would be Richard’s abysmal dietary habits that survived.

 

“Sleep well?” Jason asked innocently between shovelling spoonfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Damian (unlike Jason) closed his mouth, biting back the comparison between Todd and the slices of dead pig sharing his plate.

 

“Excellently.” Damian answered instead, smirking as he took his place on Dick’s left.

 

“Really?” Jason said, face falling in disappointment before his expression masked.

 

“Really.” Damian echoed pleasantly. It was true he had, at least after he had removed the two dozen needles and fished out the three stink bombs _someone_ had threaded through his mattress and pushed into his pillow. He stole a glance at the abomination of Todd’s forehead, where hints of marker that had escaped the vagrant’s washcloth still remained.

 

Tim’s head swung from Damian’s face to Jason’s, taking in the glares and glowers promising violent bodily harm before landing on Dick’s oblivious expression. “Kon says a new arcade opened in town last week,” He piped up, attempting to diffuse the tension.

 

Damian rolls his eyes. “Those places are obviously cons. Only morons fall for such blatant trickery.”

 

“Arcades are actually pretty fun idiot. Do they have laser tag?’ Jason growled in a little more heated venom than usual, disagreeing for the sake of disagreeing.

 

Tim twitched, turning a shiver into a nonchalant shrug. He resisted the urge to run as Damian’s glare intensified, eyes drilling through his insides as he drew a battered pamphlet from his pocket and tossed it onto the table.

 

The place, it turned out, did have laser tag.

 

“This is unacceptable,” Damian seethed. “There must be some mistake, i demand to speak to the manager.”

Tim watched in sympathy as the staff, a trainee who’d introduced herself as Sarah, attempted to diffuse the nuclear bomb that was an enraged Damian Wayne.

 

“No mistake,” Sarah garbled. The slower, understanding tone of her voice had survived the first minute before switching to anger when that hadn't worked, then sheer desperation. Any pleasantries had gone out the window when Damian threatened to have her fired and escorted from the premises. “All the teams are selected at complete random-“

 

Tim feels another flood of pity towards the woman. Dick would have stopped Damian in five quick words but Dick was also busy; he’d disappeared nearly five minutes ago after he found out they could personalise their names. Last he’d seen his older brother was hovering over each of their vests, steepling fingers like an 80s Bond villain.

“I refuse to work with this, this, sibling stealing degenerate!” If it was possible Damian’s face turned even redder as he whirled and struck out an accusatory finger at Jason who in turn, huffed and flashed his teeth.

 

“Well I didn't ask to be paired with you either, brat.” Jason turned and shot him the kind of glare that meant either his dessert was getting stolen or his corpse was going to wash up on the shores of Gotham Bay. With Jason even Tim could never know.

 

“How come you got Dick?” Jason whined.

 

Tim shrugged. “Just got lucky i guess.”

 

And if he’d hacked the arcade’s randomiser mechanic to deliberately pair him off with Dick, well no one ever had to know. And getting to pair Jason with Damian? That was just the icing on an already delicious cake.

 

Jason’s eyebrow crept closer to his hairline and Tim hurriedly excused himself before he could be called out. “I need the bathroom.” He muttered. “Two minutes, I’ll catch up, promise.”

 

He ducks into a bathroom stall, closing the door and locking it, just in case Jason had decided to follow. He checks the floor, waiting a minute to see if anyone walks in before pulling up his sleeve and bypassing the arcade’s mainframes. It’s hard not to laugh when he sees the names Dick registered them all with. Bruce is going to kill him.

 

BabyBat. Jaebae. Eeyore. (I call B that because he can be such a downer sometimes, Dick had confessed to him one night).

 

Tim gets a sinking feeling in his stomach as he thumbs through the list. RinTinTim is bad, but it’s not Jaebae bad. He’d dodged a bullet.

 

He closes the list, rolls his sleeves back down and leaves the stall, scooping a generous amount of soap into his palms and running his hands under the tap just for good measure. Then he ducks through the door. He promised he’d catch up in two minutes. Any longer and they’d start getting suspicious.

 

What he finds is like a scene ripped straight out of a comedy. Kids and adults alike are running for their lives, hands clutched over their helmets as they leg it the other way. Crates and barrels, designed for aesthetic have been tipped on their side and lugged into the tunnel’s centre. Someone had divided into two lines for either side in makeshift trenches, the same person, Tim would assume, that was standing atop the tallest crate in the very centre of the tunnel.

 

A mother drags her daughter past him, screaming. In one of the trenches Tim can make out the huddled form of a kid, head pushed into their knees and hands drawn over their helmet. Sarah is trying to console a crying seven year old with desperate promises of free ice-cream. Sarah’s face turns even paler as Tim catches the kid’s father throwing the word lawsuit out.

 

He sees Bruce, jaw set and standing in the shadows. The poor guy looks like he’s trying not to cry. Bruce got paired with some acne-riddled lanky thirteen year old who didn’t know the back-up he’d so shrilly yelled and cussed at was the actual Batman.

 

“Jeez dude, you _suck_.” DarkKnight69 snarled angrily as Bruce’s vest beeped out critical health.

 

Beside him Bruce offered a sympathetic smile. Like every upstanding playboy billionaire who’d never handled a weapon in their life, he had skilfully managed to miss every shot.

 

It’s chaos. And in the centre of it all are his brothers.

 

Tim sighs. Of fucking course.

 

“UNHAND ME AT ONCE!” Damian thunders, arms and legs flailing wildly as he tries to escape his captor but Jason is having none of it. He’s grinning widely, the kind of whole face smile that transformed his face from darkened, world weary cynic to a little kid again. Dick is running laps around the pair, zigzagging and throwing in somersaults and backflips to avoid the lasers fired at his feet. One laser gets a little too close for comfort and he yelps, bounding back to his feet like the floor is a springboard and ducking for cover in the form of the trio of barrels planted in the corner. He raises his gun and fires a round off without slowing, seamlessly blending the efforts of skilled marksman and headless chicken running for its life together. Damian’s squawks turn louder as Jason smugly spins and his meat shield is hurled after against his will.

 

“This is idiotic, Todd. We are on the same team. And we are _losing_.” Damian emphasises with a snarl, his little face scrunching into a grimace under the helmet visor as Jason cackles. And not a little cackle. A full on, Dr. Frankenstein it’s aliiiive, mad scientist level 10 cackle.

 

“No, you’re losing, which means I’m **winning**.” And with that happy logic worked out Jason shoves a foot out and trips Dick who manages to bend the force of gravity to his will and somehow avoid faceplanting the floor.

 

“We should do this more often.” Jason declares as each of the imaginary bullets Dick returns plink harmlessly into Damian’s vest. 

 

Tim raises an eyebrow as he steps into the fray. “That’s gotta be against the rules.” He grumbles dryly, rolling out of the way as Jason calmly lifts his gun, takes aim at his head and fires.

 

Damian’s body bounces up and down as Jason shrugs. “Didn’t say anywhere that you couldn’t.”

 

So it wasn’t in the rulebook. Tim thinks that after today they’ll probably have to update it. Section 21c. No using teammates as shields.

 

Jason is too focused on Tim that he doesn’t spot the shadow of Dick creeping up. He’d scaled one of the labyrinth walls, somehow managing not to topple the thing but instead perch precariously on its top and inch his way over, so that he was now crouched on his haunches like a cat about to pounce directly over Jason’s head.

 

Screaming a war cry that Tim’s 98% sure is stolen from Braveheart, Dick jumps.

 

Jason goes down. Hard. He loses his grip on Damian who takes advantage of the situation, staying long enough to kick Jason decidedly in the shins before scurrying away.

 

Tim grins, about to congratulate Dick on a well-earned victory, when the wall behind Jason trembles. Dick's leap must have dislodged it. It sways drunkenly and for a moment Tim thinks everything is going to be okay, they're not all going to die horribly, crushed under a fake maze wall. Then it pitches forward. He has time to think  _oh no_ before suddenly like a row of dominoes all the other walls are collapsing around him. 

...

Jason thinks the mugshots were a little overkill (honestly how was he supposed to know that throwing barrels at the enemy was against the rules? And no one had specified you couldn’t climb on the walls so it wasn’t like the whole maze collapsing was Dick’s fault. And they had said they were sorry). He glances back. Bruce is still standing with the manager, wallet out and hundred dollar bills already being pushed forward as he smoothly promises to pay for all damages. Tim is glaring at Damian. Damian is glaring at the lanky twenty-two student the arcade has acting as security. The demon hisses something that sounds a lot like ‘bitch’ as they shuffle awkwardly past Sarah who is posted at the door, hands on her hips as she smirks vindictively. Dick giggles, wiggling his way out of his guard’s arms to nuzzle his body into Jason’s.

 

“This really was fun.” Dick whispers into the shell of Jason’s ear. “I hope we do it again.”

 

Jason watches as the manager pockets Bruce’s money and oozes away, leaving their guardian to stride over, face full of thunder.

 

"I dunno." He emits a low chuckle. “Think B might have a bit of a problem with that.” He murmurs, hands twining with Dick’s as they pile into the backseat of the car.


End file.
